The poem
(Mark, xi.17)
Thy mansion is the Christian's heart, O Lord, Thy dwelling place secure! Bid the unruly throng depart, And leave the consecrated door.
Devoted as it is to Thee, A thievish swarm frequents the place, They steal away my hopes from me, And rob my Saviour of His praise.
There, too, a sharp designing trade Sin, Satan, and the World maintain; Nor cease to press me, and persuade To part with ease, and purchase pain.
I know them, and I hate their din; And weary of the bustling crowd; But while their voice is heard within, I cannot serve Thee as I would.
Oh! for the joy thy presence gives, What peace shall reign when Thou art there; Thy presence makes this den of thieves A calm delightful house of prayer.
And if Thou make Thy temple shine, Yet self-abased, will I adore; The gold and silver are not mine; I give Thee waht was Thine before.