Trees shall rise around thy dwelling,
When thy house from heaven appears;
Art thou that thou liv'st in selling,
As are numbered up thy years?

Thou canst ne'er have leave to enter
That new dwelling's open door;
Where thy hopes and wishes centre,
Where thy friend has gone before;

Till the hut where now thou livest,
Low is leveled with the ground;
Then thy prayer to Him who givest
Has at length acceptance found.

Then though poor, yet He will cherish,
Whose high mansion is the sky;
Houseless left thou shalt not perish
'Neath its wide-spread canopy.

Quick then, leave some poorer dweller
That wherein thou livest now;
Better far awaits the seller,
Richer lands his oxen plough.