Jehovah, God, who dwelt of old
In tem­ples made with hands,
Thy pow­er dis­play, Thy truth un­fold,
Where this new tem­ple stands.

Vouchsafe to meet Thy child­ren here,
Nor ev­er hence depart;
From sor­row’s eye wipe ev­ery tear,
And bless each long­ing heart.

The rich man’s gift, the wi­dow’s mite,
Are blend­ed in these walls;
These al­tars wel­come all alike
Who heed God’s gra­cious calls.

From things un­ho­ly and un­clean
We se­pa­rate this place;
May naught here ev­er come be­tween
This peo­ple and Thy face!

Now with this house we give to Thee
Ourselves, our hearts, our all,
The pledge of faith and loy­al­ty,
Held sub­ject to Thy call.

And when at last the blood washed throng
Is ga­thered from all lands,
We’ll en­ter with tri­um­phant songs
The house not made with hands.