Classic Poem

1. Jehovah, God, who dwelt of old In temples made with hands, Thy
2. Vouchsafe to meet thy children here, Nor ever hence depart; From
power display, thy truth unfold, Where this new temple stands.
sorrow's eye wipe every tear, And bless each longing heart.

3. The rich man's gift, the widow's mite
Are blended in these walls;
These altars welcome all alike
Who heed God's gracious calls.

4. From things unholy and unclean,
We separate this place;
May naught here ever come between
This people and thy face!

5. Now with this house we give to thee
Ourselves, our hearts, our all,
The pledge of faith and loyalty,
Held subject to thy call.

6. And when at last the blood-washed throng
Is gathered from all lands,
We'll enter, with triumphant song,
The house not made with hands.