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 heav'nly Father's Call.

3 'Tis He, by his Almighty Grace,
That forms thee fit for Heav'n;
And as an Earnest of the Place,
Has his own Spirit giv'n.

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.