There is a house not made with hands,
Eternal and on high;
And here my spirit waiting stands,
Till God shall bid it fly.


I long to see my friends again,
And hear them sweetly say,
Come, weary dove, here is thy home,
Then fold thy wings and stay.

Shortly this prison of my clay
Must be dissolved and fall;
Then, Oh my soul, with joy obey
Thy heav’nly Father’s call.


’Tis He, by His almighty grace,
That forms thee fit for heav’n;
And as an earnest of the place,
Has His own Spirit giv’n.


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