Classic Poem

Bow, angels, from your glorious state
If e'er on earth you trod,
And lead me through the golden gate
Of prayer, unto my God .

I long to gather from the Word
The meaning, full and clear,
To build unto my gracious L ORD
A tabernacle here.

Against my face the tempests beat,
The snows are falling chill,
When shall I hear the voice so sweet,
Commanding, Peace, be still!

The angels said, God giveth you
His love—what more is ours?
Even as the cisterns of the dew
O'erflow upon the flowers,

His grace decends; and, as of old,
He walks with men apart,
Keeping the promise, as foretold,
With all the pure in heart.