Come, Je­sus, from the sap­phire throne,
Where Thy re­deemed be­hold Thy face,
Enter this tem­ple, now Thine own,
And let Thy glo­ry fill the place.

We praise Thee that today we see
Its sac­red walls before Thee stand;
’Tis Thine for us—’tis ours for Thee;
Reared by Thy kind, as­sist­ing hand.

Oft as re­turns the day of rest,
Let heart­felt wor­ship here as­cend;
With Thine own joy fill ev­ery breast,
With Thine own pow­er Thy word at­tend.

Here, in the dark and sor­row­ing day,
Bid Thou the throb­bing heart be still;
O wipe the mourn­er’s tears away,
And give new strength to meet Thy will.

When round this board Thine own shall meet,
And keep the feast of dy­ing love,
Be our com­mun­ion ev­er sweet,
With Thee, and with Thy Church ab­ove.

Come, faith­ful Shep­herd, feed Thy sheep;
In Thine own arms the lambs en­fold;
Give help to climb the heav­en­ward steep,
Till Thy full glo­ry we be­hold.