Every place a place of worship.

O THOU, to whom, in ancient time, The lyre of Hebrew bards was strung, Whom kings adored in songs sublime, And prophets prais'd with glowing tongue.

Not now on Zion's height alone Thy favor'd worshiper may dwell; Or where, at sultry noon, thy Son Sat, weary, by the patriarch's well.

From ev'ry place below the skies, The grateful song, the fervent pray'r, The incense of the heart may rise To heav'n and find acceptance there.

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.