Lord, ’tis a plea­sant thing to stand
In gar­dens plant­ed by Thine hand;
Let me with­in Thy courts be seen,
Like a young ce­dar, fresh and green.

There grow Thy saints in faith and love,
Blest with Thine in­flu­ence from above;
Not Le­ba­non with all its trees
Yields such a come­ly sight as these.

The plants of grace shall ev­er live;
Nature de­cays, but grace must thrive;
Time, that doth all things else im­pair,
Still makes them flour­ish strong and fair.

Laden with fruits of age, they show
The Lord is ho­ly, just and true;
None that at­tend His gates shall find
A God un­faith­ful or un­kind.