Poems (Hornblower)/The Temple

by Jane Elizabeth Roscoe Hornblower

THE TEMPLE.

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Into the Temple's sacred bound,
 Jesus went forth, and, standing there,
He sorrowfully gazed around
 On that profaned house of prayer—

For there did Mammon hold his throne.
 The merchandise of earth o'erthrew
All that the heart should holiest own,
 A spot to God's pure worship due.

Then indignation lit that brow
 Of dignity so calm and great;
He turned then stands to overthrow,
 He warned them of impending fate:

"This house was sanctified to praise,
 And humblest prayer—but ye, profane,
An altar to your God would raise,
 Make it the scene of earthly gain!

"Go! carry hence your worldly pride,
 The pure in heart shall enter here,
The humble come their brows to hide.
 The mourner to dispel his tear.

"A den of thieves my house ye make,
 Depart"—t' was peace and silence there,
Profoundly deep—a calm, to break
 Only to holiest sounds of prayer.

And Jesus felt the blest repose
 Divinely sweet. Oh! is there not
A soothing for our bitterest woes,
 Within that shrined and sacred spot?

A holier temple still, is ours,
 In the veiled precincts of the heart;
Our sacrifice—its noblest powers,
 Beyond the proudest domes of art.

No worldly fears must enter in
 That blest retreat—no sordid care,
No clouds of doubt, no stains of sin,
 That sacred spot with God must share.

For pure that shrine must ever he,
 For His own glorious service given,
Which shares His own eternity,
 Which tastes the happiness of heaven!