A man may not build a house on a mountain
That may long tarry; soon the tempest
Swift on it sweeps. Sand is useless
In deluge of rain to him that dwells
In the house as master; it melts away,
In the rain sinks. So with every man;
His inmost mind is mightily shaken,
Stirred from its station, when the strong winds,
Of earthly troubles toss and tease it,
Or when the ruthless rain of affliction,
Boundless distress, dashes upon it.
But he that ever wishes to own
True joy eternal must turn and flee
This world's beauty. Then let him build
The house of his soul so that he find
The Rock of Humility, hard and fastest,
Sure foundation; he shall not slip
Though that the tempest of worldly troubles
Or flood of worries fiercely assail it.
For in that Vale of the Lowly the Lord Himself
Ever abides, owns His Home;
And there too Wisdom in memory waits.
A life without sorrow he always leads
That chooses wisdom; it never changes,
Since he disdains delights of the world,
From every evil utterly free;
He hopes in eternity hereafter to come.
Him then everywhere God Almighty
Keeps always, ever unceasing,
Fast abiding in the blessed joys
