How lovely are thy tents, O Lord!
Where'er thou choosest to record

Psalm lxxxiv.

How lovely are thy tents, O Lord!
Where'er thou choosest to record
Thy name, or place thy house of prayer,
My soul outflies the angel-choir,
And faints, o'erpowered with strong desire,
To meet thy special presence there.

Happy the men to whom 'tis given
To dwell within that gate of heaven,
And in thy house record thy praise;
Whose strength and confidence thou art,
Who feel thee, Saviour, in their heart,
The Way, the Truth, the Life of grace:

Who, passing through the mournful vale,
Drink comfort from the living well,
That flows replenished from above;
From strength to strength advancing here,
Till all before their God appear,
And each receives the crown of love.

Better a day thy courts within
Than thousands in the tents of sin;
How base the noblest pleasures there!
How great the weakest child of thine!
His meanest task is all divine,
And kings and priests thy servants are.

The Lord protects and cheers his own,
Their light and strength, their shield and sun:
He shall both grace and glory give:
Unlimited his bounteous grant;
No real good they e'er shall want;
All, all is theirs, who righteous live.

O Lord of hosts, how blest is he
Who steadfastly believes in thee!
He all thy promises shall gain:
The soul that on thy love is cast
Thy perfect love on earth shall taste,
And soon with thee in glory reign.