As pants the hart for wa­ter brooks,
So pants my soul, O God, for Thee;
For Thee it thirsts, to Thee it looks,
And longs the liv­ing God to see.

Far from Thy sac­red courts, my tears
Have been my food by night and day,
While con­stant­ly with bit­ter sneers,
Where is thy God? the scoff­ers say.

These things I’ll call to mind and cry,
When I shall tread the sac­red way
To Zi­on, prais­ing God on high,
With throngs who keep the ho­ly day.

O why art thou cast down, my soul?
And what should so dis­qui­et thee?
Still hope in God, and Him ex­tol,
Whose face brings sav­ing health to me.

My God, al­though de­ject­ed now,
I think of Thee to check my fear,
From Jor­dan’s land, from Her­mon’s brow,
And Mi­zar hill, for Thou art near.