Page:Poems Sigourney, 1834.pdf/137

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" up your heads, ye hallowed gates, and give The King of Glory room." And then a strain Of solemn, trembling melody inquired, "Who is the King of Glory?" But a sound Brake from the echoing temple, like the rush Of many waters, blent with organ's breath, And the soul's harp, and the uplifted voice Of prelate, and of people, and of priest Responding joyously—"the Lord of Hosts, He is the King of Glory." Enter in, To this his new abode, and with glad heart Kneel low before his footstool. Supplicate That favouring presence which doth condescend From the pavilion of high heaven to beam On earthly temples, and in contrite souls. Here fade all vain distinctions that the pride Of man can arrogate. This house of prayer Doth teach that all are sinners—all have strayed Like erring sheep. The wealthy or the poor, The bright or ebon brow, the pomp of power, The boast of intellect, what are they here? Man sinks to nothing while he deals with God. Yet let the grateful hymn, as those who share A boundless tide of blessings—those who tread Their pilgrim path, rejoicing in the hope