6-8s. Psalm lxxxiv. 1 How lovely are thy tents, O Lord! Where'er thou choosest to record Thy name, or place thy house of prayer, My soul outflies the angel-choir, And faints, o'erpowered with strong desire, To meet thy special presence there.
2 Happy the men to whom 'tis given To dwell within that gate of heaven, And in thy house record thy praise; Whose strength and confidence thou art, Who feel thee, Saviour, in their heart, The Way, the Truth, the Life of grace:
3 Who, passing through the mournful vale, Drink comfort from the living well, That flows replenished from above; From strength to strength advancing here, Till all before their God appear, And each receives the crown of love.
4 Better a day thy courts within Than thousands in the tents of sin; How base the noblest pleasures there! How great the weakest child of thine! His meanest task is all divine, And kings and priests thy servants are.
5 The Lord protects and cheers his own, Their light and strength, their shield and sun: He shall both grace and glory give: Unlimited his bounteous grant; No real good they e'er shall want; All, all is theirs, who righteous live.
6 O Lord of hosts, how blest is he Who steadfastly believes in thee! He all thy promises shall gain: The soul that on thy love is cast Thy perfect love on earth shall taste, And soon with thee in glory reign.
