I Have fancied, sometimes, the Bethel-bent beam,
That trembled to earth in the patriarch’s dream,
Was a ladder of song in that wilderness rest,
From the pillar of stone to the blue of the blest,
And the angels descending to dwell with us here,
“Old Hundred,” and “Corinth,” and “China,” and “Mear.”

“Let us sing to God’s praise,” the minister...