O thou to whom, in ancient time,
The lyre of Hebrew bards was strung,
Whom kings adored in song sublime,
And prophets praised with glowing tongue.
Not now on Zion's height alone,
The favored worshiper may dwell,
Nor where at sultry noon, thy Son
Sat weary by the patriarch's well.
From every place below the skies,
The grateful song, the fervent prayer,
The incense of the heart, may rise
To heav'n and find acceptance there.
O thou to whom, in ancient time,
The holy prophet's harp was strung,
To thee, at last, in ev'ry clime,
Shall praise arise and songs be sung.