Thou art the land of all my dreams,—
Thy wanderer's heart is thine,
And oft he lingers by thy streams,
O holy Palestine!

A stranger in a stranger's land
O'er hill and vale I roam;
But hope forever points her hand
Towards my father's home.

They tell me that on Zion's hill
The Cross and Crescent shine:
But oh, my heart is with thee still,
Beloved Palestine.

I know that Israel's weary race
Are scorned on every shore,
And scarcely find a dwelling-place
Where they were lords before.

Yet, 'mid the darkness and the gloom,
A light begins to break;
O Israel, from the dreary tomb
Thy buried hopes awake,—

And lips that raise the fervent prayer,
"How long, O Lord, how long?"
Shall change the wailings of despair
To the triumphant song.

And I may live to see the hour—
The hour that must be near,—
When in his royalty and power
Our Shiloh will appear.

Till then my prayers will rise for thee,
Till then my heart be thine,
O land beyond the stormy sea,
O holy Palestine.