1 There is a house not made with hands, Eternal and on high: And here my spirit waiting stands Till God shall bid it fly.
2 Shortly this prison of my clay Must be dissolv'd and fall, Then, O my soul, with joy obey Thy heavenly Father's call.
3 'Tis he by his almighty grace That forms thee fit for heaven, And as an earnest of the place, Has his own Spirit given.
4 We walk by faith of joys to come, Faith lives upon his word; But while the body is our home We're absent from the Lord.
5 'Tis pleasant to believe thy grace, But we had rather see; We would be absent from the flesh, And present, Lord, with thee.