There is a house not made with hands Eternal and on high, And here my spirit waiting stands Till God shall bit it fly. Shortly this prison of my clay. Must be dissolved and fall, Then, O my soul, with joy obey Thy heav'nly Father's call. 'Tis he, by his almighty grace, That forms thee fit for heav'n. And, as an earnest of the place. Has his own Spirit giv'n. We walk by faith of joys to come; Faith lives upon his word; And while the body is our home We're absent from the Lord. 'Tis pleasant to believe thy grace, But we had rather see; We would be absent from the flesh, And present, Lord, with thee.
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