Built on the rock the church doth stand,
Even when stee­ples are fall­ing;
Crumbled have spires in ev­ery land,
Bells still are chim­ing and call­ing;
Calling the young and old to rest,
But above all the soul dis­tressed,
Longing for rest ev­er­last­ing.

Surely in tem­ples made with hands,
God, the Most High, is not dwell­ing;
High above earth His tem­ple stands,
All earth­ly tem­ples ex­cel­ling;
Yet He whom hea­vens can­not con­tain
Chose to abide on earth with men,
Built in our bo­dies His tem­ple.

We are God’s house of liv­ing stones,
Built for His own ha­bi­ta­tion;
He through bap­tis­mal grace us owns,
Heirs of His won­drous sal­va­tion;
Were we but two His name to tell,
Yet He would deign with us to dwell,
With all His grace and His fa­vor.

Here stands the font be­fore our eyes
Telling how God has re­ceived us;
The al­tar re­calls Christ’s sac­ri­fice
And what His Supper here give us;
Here sounds the Word that doth pro­claim
Christ yes­ter­day, to­day, the same,
And evermore, our Re­deem­er.

Grant then, O God, You will be done,,
That, when the church bells are ring­ing,
Many in sav­ing faith may come
Where Christ His mes­sage is bring­ing:
I know My own, Mu own know Me;
You, not the world, My face shall see.
My peace I leave with you, Amen.