There is a house not made with hands,

Eternal and on high;

And here my spirit waiting stands,

Till God shall bid it fly.

Shortly this prison of my clay

Must be dissolved and fall;

Then, O 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.

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.

'Tis pleasant to believe thy grace,

But we had rather see;

We would be absent from the flesh,

And present, Lord, with thee.