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. |