O Lord of Hosts, Whose Glory Fills

O Lord of hosts

whose glo­ry fills

The bounds of the eter­nal hills

And yet vouch­safes

in Christ­ian lands

To dwell in tem­ples made with hands;

Grant that all we

who here to­day

Rejoicing this foun­da­tion lay

May be in ve­ry deed Thine own.

Built on the pre­cious cor­ner­stone.

Endue the crea­tures with Thy grace

That shall ad­orn Thy dwell­ing place;

The beau­ty of the oak and pine

The gold and sil­ver

make them Thine.

To Thee they all belong; to Thee

The trea­sures of the earth and sea;

And when we bring them to Thy throne

We but pre­sent Thee with Thine own.

Endue the hearts that guide with skill

Preserve the hands that work from ill

That we

who these foun­da­tions lay

May raise the top­stone in its day.

Both now and ev­er

Lord

pro­tect

The tem­ple of Thine own elect;

Be Thou in them

and they in Thee

O ev­er bless­èd Tri­ni­ty!