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.

My heart and flesh cry out for God;
There would I fix my soul’s abode,
As birds that in the al­tars nest;
There would I all my young ones bring,
An of­fer­ing to my God and king,
And in Thy courts for ev­er rest.

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, Sav­ior, 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 plea­sure 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.