POE TRY.
NAZARETH.
BUILD ye no churches to my praise, Lift not the lofty fane, No clouds of smothering incense raise My honour to maintain.
Within man's heart the house of prayer Reared by a Father's hands, And open to the healthful air, A wind-swept altar stands.
But would ye build a house on earth In which I love to dwell, Where thoughts that own a heavenly birth Like music rise and swell, Look where with chisel and with plane Wrought He, whose glory now Fills heaven, yet did that glory deign At man's command to bow : Obedient to a parent's word, True to a parent's claim, Checking the mighty hopes that stirred, Till the great summons came.
Seek not My blessing to secure With steeple or with dome.
Build ye the cottage of the poor,—
God's temple is the home. E. D. Sroxz.
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