2 Not now on Zion's height alone,
Thy favored worshippers may dwell,
Nor where at sultry noon Thy Son
Sat weary, by the patriarch's well:

3 From every place below the skies,

The grateful song, the fervent prayer, The incense of the heart, may rise

To Heaven, and find acceptance there.

4 To Thee shall age with snowy hair,
And strength and beauty, bend the knee;
And childhood lisp, with reverent air,
Its praises and its prayers to Thee.

5 O Thou, to whom, in ancient time,
The lyre of prophet bards was strung,
To Thee, at last, in every clime,
Shall temples rise and praise be sung.
John Pierpont