Isaac Watts · 468 of 724

Hymn 110

There is a house not made with hands, Eternal and on high; And here my spirit waiting stands, Till God shall bid 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; But 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.