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Tile-roofed and low it meekly stands,
The loving work of loving hands,
And views, from out its cross-crowned tower,
Its garden plot of tree and flower.


Within, madroƱa trees, love-slain,
With joy renewed live once again,
To hold, in still unwearied arms,
The naked ceiling's modest charms.


A holy hush is in the air,
As though the spirit's essence there
Had been distilled and entered all
That lay within the sacred wall.


The song is sung, the prayer is said,
The Book, and sermon thence, are read,
While from the wings of Peace outspread
The balm of blessedness is shed.