Wednesday In Easter Week, 1844 Poem by Henry Alford

The lovely form of God's own Church
It riseth in all lands,
On mountain sides, in wooded vales,
And by the desert sands.

There is it, with its solemn aisles,
A heavenly, holy thing,
And round its walls lie Christian dead
Blessedly slumbering.

Though sects and factions rend the world,
Peace is its heritage;
Unchanged, though empires by it pass,
The same from age to age.

The hallowed form our fathers built,
That hallowed form build we;
Let not one stone from its own place
Removèd ever be.

Scoff as thou passest, if thou wilt,
Thou man that hast no faith;
Thou that no sorrows hast in life,
Nor blessedness in death.

But we will build, for all thou scoff,
And cry, ``What waste is this!''
The Lord our God hath given us all,
And all is therefore His.

Clear voices from above sound out
Their blessing on the pile;
The dead beneath support our hands,
And succour us the while.

Yea, when we climb the rising walls
Is peace and comfort given;
Because the work is not of earth,
But hath its end in Heaven.