For Thee, O God, our con­stant praise
In Zi­on waits, Thy chos­en seat;
Our pro­mised al­tars we will raise,
And there our zea­lous vows com­plete.

O Thou, who to my hum­ble pray­er
Didst al­ways bend Thy list­en­ing ear,
To Thee shall all man­kind re­pair,
And at Thy gra­cious throne ap­pear.

Our sins, though num­ber­less, in vain,
To stop Thy flow­ing mer­cy try;
Whilst Thou o’er­look’st the guil­ty stain,
And wash­est out the crim­son dye.

Blest is the man, who, near Thee placed,
Within Thy sac­red dwell­ing lies!
While we, at hum­bler dist­ance, taste
The vast de­lights Thy tem­ple gives.