The fes­tal morn, my God, is come
That calls me to Thy hal­lowed dome,
Thy pre­sence to adore;
My feet the sum­mons shall at­tend,
With will­ing steps Thy courts as­cend,
And tread the sac­red floor.

And now we greet with rap­tured eyes,
Fair Zi­on tow­er­ing to the skies;
Within her gates we stand:
City of peace! how sweet the sight
When all thy sons in love unite,
A ho­ly, hap­py band.

Hither from Ju­dah’s ut­most end,
The Hea­ven pro­tect­ed tribes as­cend,
Their of­fer­ings hi­ther bring;
Here ea­ger to at­test their joy,
In hymns of praise their ton­gues em­ploy
And hail th’im­mor­tal King.

May peace for­ev­er dwell with thee,
O Salem—thus with bend­ed knee,
To Ja­cob’s God we pray;
How blest who calls him­self Thy friend,
Success his la­bors shall at­tend,
And safe­ty guard his way.

O may’st thou, free from hos­tile fear,
Never the voice of tu­mult hear,
Nor wast­ing war de­plore;
May plen­ty nigh thee take her stand,
And in thy courts with lav­ish hand,
Distribute all her store.

Seat of my friends and breth­ren, hail!
Ne’er shall my tongue, O Zi­on, fail
To bless thy loved abode;
Ne’er cease the zeal that in me glows
To seek thy good, whose walls en­close
The man­sion of my God.