What lone mysterious abode is this,
Surrounded by a wall of spotless white;
By day an altar in the wilderness,
A silent watcher on the plain by night?

Who dwells within its consecrated veil,
To secular and alien feet denied?
Who answers when the priest, white-robed and pale,
Sprinkles the blood by bulls and goats supplied?

Think you that He of name omnipotent
Required for naught these oft-repeated rites,
Or gratified mere vanity by scent
Of incense, broidered robes and altar-lights?

Nay, verily! The curious tapestries,
The vessels wrought of silver, copper, gold,
The ceremonious modes of sacrifice,
All better things of Gospel times foretold.

And happy he whose reverent gaze discerns
What types and shadows could but dimly trace:
His offering on the golden altar burns,
He solves the mysteries of the Holy Place.

Upon the blood-stained mercy-seat he reads
Atonement sealed by him who went before,
And from the open heavens the Father speeds
The riches of his love and grace to out pour.