CONSECRATION OF A CHURCH.
"Lift up your heads, ye hallowed gates, and give
The King of Glory room."
And then a strain
Of solemn, trembling melody inquired,
"Who is the King of Glory?"
But a sound
Brake from the echoing temple, like the rush
Of many waters, blent with organ's breath,
And the soul's harp, and the uplifted voice
Of prelate, and of people, and of priest
Responding joyously—"the Lord of Hosts,
He is the King of Glory."
Enter in,
To this his new abode, and with glad heart
Kneel low before his footstool. Supplicate
That favouring presence which doth condescend
From the pavilion of high heaven to beam
On earthly temples, and in contrite souls.
Here fade all vain distinctions that the pride
Of man can arrogate. This house of prayer
Doth teach that all are sinners—all have strayed
Like erring sheep. The wealthy or the poor,
The bright or ebon brow, the pomp of power,
The boast of intellect, what are they here?
Man sinks to nothing while he deals with God.
Yet let the grateful hymn, as those who share
A boundless tide of blessings—those who tread
Their pilgrim path, rejoicing in the hope
Of an ascended Saviour—through these walls
Forever flow. Thou[1] dedicated dome!
Still in thy majesty and beauty stand,
Stand, and give praise, until the rock-ribbed earth
In her last throes shall tremble. Then dissolve
Into thy native dust, with one long sigh
Of melody, while the redeemed souls
That 'neath thine arch to endless life were born,
Go up on wings of glory, to the "house
Not made with hands."