The ho­ly song hath died away,
But still it vi­brates through our hearts:
And we re­turn, though fain to stay;
Each to his fa­mi­ly departs.

The morn­ing bade the tem­ple gate
Lift it­self high; we en­tered in,
And on Thee, Lord, pre­sumed to wait,
Thy grace to seek, Thy smile to win.

Now for the house­hold sac­ri­fice;
The ev­en­ing rite as in­cense spread;
And let our blame­less hands arise,
Doubting and wrath for ev­er fled.

Can doubt have place? Thy mer­cies new
Assure and lift our souls above.
Nor on its al­tar would we strew
A liv­ing coal but that of love.

Oh ’tis an hour of ho­ly calm;
Our ta­ber­na­cle is in peace;
To Thee shall swell the cheer­ful psalm,
Teach us Thy Word, our faith in­crease.

Zion and Ja­cob share our vows,
Peace be to both: and grace dis­till
On God’s, and on His child­ren’s house,
The hap­py tent, the ho­ly hill.

Good, though not best, ’tis to be here,
Soon no such dif­fer­ence shall there be;
True sanc­tu­ary, with­in Thy sphere
Shall wor­ship the whole fa­mi­ly.