676
L. M.
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:
2 Not now on Zion’s hight alone
Thy favored worshipers may dwell;
Nor where, at sultry noon, thy Son
Sat weary, by the patriarch’s well.
3 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.
4 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!
5 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!
Ware.