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;
‘Tis 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 His 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.