1 There is a house not made with hands,
Eternal and on high;
And here my spirit waiting stands,
Till God shall bid it fly.
2 Shortly this prison of my clay
Must be dissolv'd and fall,
Then, O my soul, with joy obey
Thy heavenly Father's call.
3 'Tis he, by his almighty grace,
That forms thee fit for heaven,
And as an earnest of the place,
Has his own Spirit given.
4 We walk by faith of joys to come,
Faith lives upon his word;
But while the body is our home
We're absent from the Lord.
5 'Tis pleasant to believe thy grace,
But we had rather see;
We would be absent from the flesh,
And present, Lord, with thee.
|First Line:||There is a house not made with hands|
|Topic:||Death: Death of the pious; Death and immediate Glory|