Two hundred years have waxed and waned,
Since they, the mighty men of old,
The pillars of our faith sustained,
Through waves opposing round them rolled.
And still, mid ruins dim and grey,
Those grand, unmouldering pillars rise,
Sun lit, as on that hallowed day,
When first they met the gilding skies.
In vain, shall Time’s dark ocean beat
Against their base, with ebbless flood;
Each warring power, unmoved they meet,
Cemented by a Saviout’s blood.
God of our Sires! Eternal God!
Let every soul a temple be,
By angel footsteps only trod,
Where smoking altars rise to Thee.
The Heaven of Heavens cannot contain
Thy glory, glorious as thou art;
Yet, by thy word, thou wilt remain,
Indweller of the lowly heart.
Oh! let a cloud of incense, now,
From every bosom shrine ascend—
Let Faith exalt her radiant brow,
And Prayer and Adoration blend.