Every Place a Temple

 


 
 

O Thou, to whom, in ancient time,
The lyre of Hebrew bards was strung;
Whom kings adored in songs sublime,
And prophets praised with glowing tongue:
Not now on Zion’s height alone
Thy favored worshippers 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.

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!



 
 
Every Place a Temple Hymn
 
 

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