Into the Temple’s sacred bound,
Jesus went forth, and standing there,
He sorrowful did gaze around
On that profanèd 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 their 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!

A den of thieves My house ye make,
Depart! ’Twas 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 veilèd 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.

From Jane E. R. Hornblower
Poems, 1843