The dew lies glassy on the grass like tears.

The early mourning sun has touched the sky.

And far above, that promontory high,

Gilboa, rises from the misty years.

The shrike of arms, the shattering of spears—

seem memories the wind bears in its sigh,

The place for kings and warriors to die

groans wearying of war, and death, and fears.

There’s something ancient, older than the stone

that breathes past rocks and seems almost to sing.

A plea, a prayer that someday here would ring

a song of peace established as a throne,

and decked in purple irises like spring,

the mount of war rejoice before its King.