O Thou, to whom in ancient time
The lyre of Hebrew bards was strung,
Whom kings adored in song sublime,
And prophets praised with glowing tongue,-
Not now on Zion's height, alone,
Thy favored worshipper may dwell;
Nor where, at sultry noon, thy Son
Sat, weary, by the Patriarch's well.
From every place below the skies,
The grateful song, the fervent prayer,-
The incense of the heart,-may rise
To Heaven, and find acceptance there.
In this, thy house, whose doors we now
For social worship first unfold,
To thee the suppliant throng shall bow,
While circling years on years are rolled.
To thee shall Age, with snowy hair,
And Strength and Beauty, bend the knee,
And Childhood lisp, with reverent air,
Its praises and its prayers to Thee.
O thou, to whom in ancient time
The lyre of prophet bards was strung,
To thee, at last, in every clime
Shall temples rise, and praise be sung.