THE TEMPLE | AdventAI

Seventh-day Adventist Publishing Association · Battle Creek, Mich. · Mar 19, 1872

THE TEMPLE.

“And the house, when it was in building, was built of stone made ready before it was brought thither; so that there was neither hammer nor axe nor any tool of iron heard in the house while it was in building.” 1 Kings 6:7. See also 5:7-18.

AND whither came these goodly stones ’t was Israel’s pride to raise, The glory of the former house, the joy of ancient days; In purity and strength erect, in radiant splendor bright, Sparkling with golden beams of noon, or silver smiles of night?

From coasts the stately cedar crowns, each noble slab was brought, In Lebanon’s deep quarries hewn, and on its mountain wrought. There rung the hammer’s stroke among the echoing rocks, There chased the chisel’s keen, sharp edge the rude unshapen blocks.

Thence polished, perfected, complete, each fitted to its place, For lofty coping, massive wall, or deep-imbedded base, They bore them o’er the waves that rolled their billowy swell between The shores of Tyre’s imperial pride, and Judah’s hills of green.

With gradual toil the work went on, through days, and months, and years, Beneath the summer’s laughing sun, and winter’s frozen tears; And thus in majesty sublime, and noiseless pomp it rose— Fit dwelling for the God of peace, a temple of repose.

Brethren in Christ, to holier things the simple type apply; Our God himself a temple builds, eternal and on high, Of souls elect; their Zion there—that world of light and bliss; Their Lebanon—the place of toil—of previous moulding— this.

From nature’s quarries, deep and dark, with gracious aim he hews The stones, the spiritual stones, it pleaseth him to choose; Hard, rugged, shapeless at the first, yet destined each to shine, Moulded beneath his patient hand, in purity divine.

Oh, glorious process! see the proud grow lowly, gentle, meek; See floods of unaccustomed tears gush down the hardened cheek; Perchance the hammer’s heavy stroke o’erthrew some idol fond; Perchance the chisel rent in twain some precious, tender bond!

Behold he prays, whose lips were sealed in silent scorn before; Sighs for the closet’s holy calm, and hails the welcome door; Behold he works for Jesus now, whose days went idly past; Oh, for more moldings of the hand that works a change so vast!

Ye looked on one, a well-wrought stone, a saint of God matured— What chiselings that heart had felt, what chastening strokes endured! But marked ye not that last soft touch, what perfect grace it gave, Ere he was fitted for his home, across the darksome wave?

His home, the place God’s grace designed that chosen soul to fill, In the bright temple of the saved, “upon his holy hill;” Home ’mid the noiselessness, the peace, of those sweet shrines above, Whose stones shall never be displaced—set in redeeming love.

Lord, chisel, chasten, polish us, each blemish work away, Cleanse us with purifying blood, in spotless robes array; And thus, thine image on us stamped, transport us to the shore, Where not a stroke is ever felt, for none is needed more. —Family Magazine.