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Then point the well-earn’d censure home 
Erst lavish’d on the sandal tree, 
Till never more an idol come, 
False heart! between thy God and thee. 
For thee, fair tree, whose sweets misplaced, 
Have roused this self-condemning strain, 
Grateful, I wish thou ne’er may’st waste 
Those sweets on idol-shrine again. 
No ! soon may He, — whose word is might, 
Whose will is triumph, — so unveil 
His glory in the heathen’s sight, 
That shrine and votary both may fail. 
May Error’s darkling shades depart 
Where’er His banners are unfurl’d; 
His altar be the human heart, — 
His temple a converted world ! 
