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.


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