Jerusalem

A

s the air turns brisk, the nights and shadows lengthen, and the leaves become brightly colored, I near the end of a year that has been a unique leg on my pathway of life. It is probably good that this year is coming to a close—it has been a year of upheaval and odd twists and turns. But as the year draws to a close, I sense the sun rising on new frontiers. And this is good. God is good. God loves us even though we are so unlovable. Perhaps, because we are so unlovable.

This poem has nothing whatsoever to do with that introductory paragraph—it is simply a poem I read this morning and found interesting. Some Britons have expressed a desire for this poem and its accompanying hymn to become their National Anthem.

Jerusalem

William Blake (1757–1827)
Sir Hubert Parry (1848–1918)

And did those feet in ancient time.
Walk upon England’s mountains green:
And was the holy Lamb of God,
On England’s pleasant pastures seen!

And did the Countenance Divine,
Shine forth upon our clouded hills?
And was Jerusalem builded here,
Among these dark Satanic Mills?

Bring me my Bow of burning gold;
Bring me my Arrows of desire:
Bring me my Spear: O clouds unfold!
Bring me my Chariot of fire!

I will not cease from Mental Fight,
Nor shall my Sword sleep in my hand:
Till we have built Jerusalem,
In England’s green & pleasant Land.