How sweet from crowded throngs,
Zion, ascend thy songs,
With choral swells through echoing aisles!
Where brethren, brethren meet,
These songs rise doubly sweet,
From humbler rooms or loftier piles.
But here, not made with hands,
A nobler temple stands;
Here, 'mid thy works, O God, we bow,
Where all around, above,
Proclaims thy power and love;
Oh, tune our hearts to praise thee now.
We bless thy gracious care,
For many a house of prayer,
Where saints may meet with conscience free,
To keep thy simple rites,
In which thy church delights,
And unforbidden, wait on thee.
But now, beneath the sky,
We raise our songs on high,
To Him who gave all nature birth;
While the free air wafts round
To distant vales the sound—
Praise to the Lord of heaven and earth.
So to the mountain air
The Saviour breathed his prayer;
So 'mid green hills or deserts rude,
The poor he meekly taught,
And gracious wonders wrought,
Or fed the famished multitude.
So did apostles teach;
So did our Whitefield preach;
These hills have heard his fervent prayer:
Oh, let the saving word
Throughout our land be heard,
Free as the light, and open as the air.
II.
Where is the voice of Whitefield now?
Where does his mantle rest?
Oh, for Elisha's from the plough,
With kindred zeal possessed!
Apostles of heroic mould,
With love seraphic fired,
Divinely called, like those of old
At Pentecost inspired!
Oh Thou, our Head, enthroned on high,
By whom thy members live,
Wilt thou not hear our fervent cry,
The holy unction give?
In all the plenitude of grace
Thy gifts of might bestow;
And by us, Lord, in every place,
Thy saving virtue show.
This Christian land with error teems,
The blind by blinder led;
The sophist weaves his Atheist schemes;
Wide has the poison spread.
Arise, O Lord, send forth thy word;
Thy faithful heralds call;
And while the gospel trump is heard,
Let Satan's bulwarks fall.