Our Dwelling Place
By C. Foster
A house is only made of wood,
With hammered nails and mortared stone.
Where men have worked to frame a place,
That others someday call their home.
A living space for families,
Moving trucks with boxes fill.
Unload a home with fancy things,
And in the yard a garden till.
They hang a sign above the door,
That reads, “All Welcome Here.”
There’s only one whom they keep out,
And don’t allow Him near.
The One who builds a different house,
Not made with earthly hands.
One that’s built upon a rock,
And not on shifting sands.
He wants to be our refuge here,
A place out of life’s storms.
The Most High God will be our home,
That only He adorns.
He prepares for us a mansion,
Where we will see His face.
And while we wait to take that move,
He’ll be our dwelling place.
For we know that if our earthly house of this tabernacle were dissolved, we have a building of God, a house not made with hands, eternal in the heavens.
(2 Corinthians 5: 1)
Unless the Lord builds the house, they labor in vain who build it; unless the Lord guards the city, the watchman keeps awake in vain.
(Psalm 127: 1)