The men who slight Thy faith­ful word
In their own lies con­fide,
These are the tem­ple of the Lord,
And hea­thens all be­side!
The tem­ple of the Lord are these,
The on­ly church and true,
Who live in pomp, and wealth, and ease,
And Je­sus ne­ver knew.

The tem­ple of the Lord—they pull
Thy liv­ing tem­ples down,
And cast out ev­ery gra­cious soul
That trem­bles at Thy frown:
The church—they from their pale ex­pel
Whom Thou hast here for­giv­en:
And all the sy­na­gogue of hell
Are the sole heirs of Hea­ven!

O would’st Thou, Lord, re­veal their sins,
And turn their joy to grief,
The world, the Chris­tian world con­vince
Of damn­ing un­be­lief;
The for­mal­ists con­found, con­vert,
And to Thy peo­ple join,
And break, and fill the brok­en heart
With con­fi­dence di­vine!