Wells Second

Lyrics

There is a house not made with hands,
Eternal and on high;
And here my spirit waiting stands,
’Till God shall bid it fly.

Shortly this prison of my clay,
Must be dissolved and fall;
Then O, my soul, with joy obey,
Thy heav’nly Father’s call.

I long to see my friends again,
And hear them sweetly say;
‘Come, weary dove, here is thy home,
Then fold thy wings and stay.’