Thy man­sion is the Chris­tian’s heart,
O Lord, Thy dwell­ing place se­cure!
Bid the un­ru­ly throng de­part,
And leave the con­se­crat­ed door.

Devoted as it is to Thee,
A thiev­ish swarm fre­quents the place;
They steal away my joys from me,
And rob my Sav­ior of His praise.

There too a sharp de­sign­ing trade
Sin, Sa­tan, and the world, main­tain;
Nor cease to press me, and per­suade,
To part with ease and pur­chase pain.

I know them, and I hate their din,
Am wea­ry of the bust­ling crowd;
But while their voice is heard with­in,
I can­not serve Thee as I would.

Oh! for the joy Thy pre­sence gives,
What peace shall reign when Thou art here!
Thy pre­sence makes this den of thieves,
A calm de­light­ful house of pray­er.

And if Thou make Thy tem­ple shine,
Yet, self-abased, will I adore;
The gold and sil­ver are not mine,
I give Thee what was Thine be­fore.