There Is a House Not Made with Hands

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.