Moriah, O sweet Moriah
where grew the sacred terebinth
that bid aloft the holy king
whose grace issuing forth has since
fulfilled the hopes of patriarchs
who in Machpelah slumber still
beneath Mamre's towering oaks
darkness cannot their joy dispel.
Moriah, who bore twice the weight
of sacrifice; who saw in hand
the fire and the knife at Isaac's
throat laid, before appeared the ram
and later felt the violent rain
fall from Abraham's precious seed
to light the watch-fires for every
distant nation who would believe.
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