GOD has a place, and it is never far,
Where reach vast arches over golden gates,
Where quiet aisles and vaulted ceilings are,
And where a spacious altar always waits;
A place where weary souls may freely come,
Hearts torn by earth’s sharp thorns a refuge find,
Sad, lonely spirits feel again at home,
And all find rest and balm for heart and mind.
It is a house of walls not made with hands.
None sees it save the broken child of care.
In every place of woe and need it stands,
Wherever sorrow dares to breathe a prayer.
The weakest, poorest, farthest spirit, tried
By grim pursuers of defeat and pain,
May claim its shelter. Then when tears are dried
It waits in silence till they fall again.