He builds his house upon the sand,
Who builds, great God! on aught but Thee!
He is a wanderer in the land,
Who seeks for any guiding hand
But Thine-our best security.
He builds his house upon a rock,
Who makes Thy word his hope and trust:
And flood and flame and tempest shock
In vain will rage,-they cannot rock
The steadfast temple of the just.
So would I build-and dwell serene
'Midst wrecks and storms-the mountain-base
Is not more firm. Time's busy scene
Shall glide along-till death's dark screen
Be spread around our resting-place.
And then a day-a brighter day
Shall dawn above the snowy hills,
That frown upon the grave. Away,
Away, despair!-Even now its ray
The path of life with splendour fills.