THERE 'S many a house that is not a home,
Though the fabrics be grand and fair;
And many a cottage which is no home,
With its walls full of strife and care:
'T is not the outward that makes the home,
But the spirit that dwelleth there.
A real home is a pilgrim's tent
Where an altar to God is found;
Where His presence sheds its sweet content
And perfume and peace around;
Where the hearts are knit with the one intent,
That their lives should His praises sound.
A true home on earth is a type below
Of the home in His house of love,
Where the nearest ties human hearts can know,
Are the transcripts of ties above;
And the holy affections from heaven that flow
Are the springs that its inmates move.