Third Sunday In Advent

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What went ye out to see
  O'er the rude sandy lea,
Where stately Jordan flows by many a palm,
  Or where Gennesaret's wave
  Delights the flowers to lave,
That o'er her western slope breathe airs of balm.

  All through the summer night,
  Those blossoms red and bright
Spread their soft breasts, unheeding, to the breeze,
  Like hermits watching still
  Around the sacred hill,
Where erst our Saviour watched upon His knees.

  The Paschal moon above
  Seems like a saint to rove,
Left shining in the world with Christ alone;
  Below, the lake's still face
  Sleeps sweetly in th' embrace
Of mountains terrac'd high with mossy stone.

  Here may we sit, and dream
  Over the heavenly theme,
Till to our soul the former days return;
  Till on the grassy bed,
  Where thousands once He fed,
The world's incarnate Maker we discern.

  O cross no more the main,
  Wandering so will and vain,
To count the reeds that tremble in the wind,
  On listless dalliance bound,
  Like children gazing round,
Who on God's works no seal of Godhead find.

  Bask not in courtly bower,
  Or sun-bright hall of power,
Pass Babel quick, and seek the holy land -
  From robes of Tyrian dye
  Turn with undazzled eye
To Bethlehem's glade, or Carmel's haunted strand.

  Or choose thee out a cell
  In Kedron's storied dell,
Beside the springs of Love, that never die;
  Among the olives kneel
  The chill night-blast to feel,
And watch the Moon that saw thy Master's agony.

  Then rise at dawn of day,
  And wind thy thoughtful way,
Where rested once the Temple's stately shade,
  With due feet tracing round
  The city's northern bound,
To th' other holy garden, where the Lord was laid.

  Who thus alternate see
  His death and victory,
Rising and falling as on angel wings,
  They, while they seem to roam,
  Draw daily nearer home,
Their heart untravell'd still adores the King of kings.

  Or, if at home they stay,
  Yet are they, day by day,
In spirit journeying through the glorious land,
  Not for light Fancy's reed,
  Nor Honour's purple meed,
Nor gifted Prophet's lore, nor Science' wondrous wand.

  But more than Prophet, more
  Than Angels can adore
With face unveiled, is He they go to seek:
  Blessed be God, Whose grace
  Shows Him in every place
To homeliest hearts of pilgrims pure and meek.

© John Keble