We Leave Thy House, But Leave Not Thee,
For Thou Wilt Ever With Us Be;
For Time Nor Space Can Us Divide,
Or Take Us From Our Shepherd’s Side.
Thy Flock We Are: Thy House Our Fold
Where We Together Thee Behold;
Yet, When We Scatter O’er Life’s Fields,
Thy Presence Sweet Communion Yields.
The Upper Room Has Not Decayed,
Each Stone Has Now A Million Made;
In Every Land Disciples Meet,
And See Thy Wounded Hands And Feet.
Though Lamps Go Out, And Home We Turn,
We Feel Our Hearts Within Us Burn;
And, Day Far Spent, The Very Street
Rings, Like Emmaus, With Thy Feet.
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