O Thou, to whom, in ancient time,

The lyre of Hebrew bards was strung;

Whom kings adored in songs sublime,

And prophets praised with glowing tongue:

2 Not now on Zion’s hight alone

Thy favored worshipers may dwell;

Nor where, at sultry noon, thy Son

Sat weary, by the patriarch’s well.

3 From every place below the skies,

The grateful song, the fervent prayer—

The incense of the heart—may rise

To heaven, and find acceptance there.

4 To thee shall age, with snowy hair,

And strength, and beauty, bend the knee;

And childhood lisp, with reverent air,

Its praises and its prayers to thee!

5 O thou to whom, in ancient time,

The lyre of prophet-bards was strung,

To thee, at last, in every clime,

Shall temples rise, and praise be sung!