O Thou, to Whom, in ancient time,
The lyre of Hebrews bards was strung,
Whom kings adored in song sublime,
And prophets praised with glowing
tongue.
Not now in Zion’s height
alone
The favored worshiper 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.
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.
