The world is not their friend, nor the world's law. <br /> <br />Lo where a crowd of pilgrims toil <br />Yon craggy steeps among! <br />Strange their attire, and strange their mien, <br />As wild they press along. <br />Their eyes with bitter streaming tears <br />Now bend towards the ground, <br />Now rapt, to heaven their looks they raise, <br />And bursts of song resound. <br />And hark! a voice from 'midst the throng <br />Cries, “Stranger, wouldst thou know <br />Our name, our race, our destined home, <br />Our cause of joy or woe,— <br />“Our country is Emanuel's land, <br />We seek that promised soil; <br />The songs of Zion cheer our hearts, <br />While strangers here we toil. <br />“Oft do our eyes with joy o'erflow, <br />And oft are bathed in tears; <br />Yet nought but heaven our hopes can raise, <br />And nought but sin our fears. <br />“The flowers that spring along the road <br />We scarcely stoop to pluck; <br />We walk o'er beds of shining ore, <br />Nor waste one wishful look: <br />“We tread the path our Master trod, <br />We bear the cross he bore; <br />And every thorn that wounds our feet <br />His temples pierced before: <br />“Our powers are oft dissolved away <br />In ecstasies of love; <br />And while our bodies wander here, <br />Our souls are fixed above: <br />“We purge our mortal dross away, <br />Refining as we run; <br />But while we die to earth and sense, <br />Our heaven is begun.”<br /><br />Anna Laetitia Barbauld<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/where-a-crowd-of-pilgrims-toil/
