2 Here is the Lord,
At thine own door. ’Tis He, the Word;
He, at whose face, the eternal speed
Of orb on orb was changed to song.
Shall He the sound of viols heed,
Whose ears have heard so high a throng?
Shall He regard the citherns strung
To whom the morning stars have sung?
_Chorus._
Then wake, my heart, and sweep the strings,
The seven in the Lyre of Life!
Instead of lutes, the spirit sings;
With praise its quiet house is rife!
Oh, what a feast of feasts is given
To His poor servants, by the King of Heaven!