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.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem