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The Book of Praise.
The hallow'd form our fathers built,
That hallow'd form build we ; Let not one stone from its own place
Removed ever be !
Scoff as thou passest, if thou wilt,
Thou man that hast no faith ; Thou, that no sorrows hast in life,
Nor blessedness in death :
But we will build, for all thou scoff, And cry, " What waste is this ! "
The Lord our God hath given us all, And all is therefore His.
Clear voices from above sound out
Their blessing on the pile ; The dead beneath support our hands,
And succour us the while.
Vea, when we climb the rising walls,
Is peace and comfort given ! Because the work is not of earth,
But hath its end in Heaven !
Henry Alford. 1845
THE LORD'S DAY.
Welcome, sweet day, of days the best, The time of holy mirth and rest,
When to God's house the saints repair To hear His word and see His face, To learn His will and sing His grace,
And vent their hearts in praise and prayer.