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.
