Whereer The Patriarch Pitched His Tent
Where’er the Patriarch pitch’d his tent,
He built an altar to his God,
And sanctified, where’er he went,
With faith and prayer, the ground he trod.
Through all the East, for riches famed,
Heaven’s gifts, he set his heart on none;
Nor, when the dearest was reclaim’d,
Withheld his son, his only son.
Wherefore, in blessing, he was blest;
Friendless, the friend of God became;
Long-wandering, every where found rest;
Long child-less, nations bear his name.
Nor nations born of blood alone,
The father of the faithful he;
Where’er his promised seed is known,
Faith’s heirs are his posterity.
My God, what Thou hast made my home,
Let me Thy sanctuary make;
My God, if call’d by Thee to roam,
Glad may I all for Thee forsake.
Thy law, Thy Love, be my delight,
Whate’er I do, or think, or am,
Walking by faith, and not by sight,
Like a true child of Abraham.
Sacred Poems and Hymns