Where is our native land?
O wanderer, O refugee,
O mourner, shall we never understand?
What we all long for so despairingly
Has always been, and ever is, at hand.
Our rightful place is here today
To claim, which none can take away.
What do the angels sing?
"Smile through your tears and cling
To that bright vision of your heritage
And own true status—children of the King!
Turn from the human scene, where tempests rage,
Or pierce the darkness with a mental beam,
Which will dispel all evil as a dream."
If only that were true . . . .
O wanderer, O refugee,
O mourner, listen to the one who knew:
"The kingdom," said the man of Galilee
To hearts homesick for heaven, "is within you . . . ."
We dwell forever in the realm of Mind,
Safe, cared for, happy, beautiful, and kind.
