Hear me, O God, nor hide Thy face;
But answer, lest I die;
Hast Thou not built a throne of grace
To hear when sin­ners cry?

My days are wast­ed like the smoke
Dissolving in the air;
My strength is dried, my heart is broke,
And sink­ing in des­pair.

My spir­its flag like wi­ther­ing grass
Burnt with ex­cess­ive heat;
In sec­ret groans my min­utes pass,
And I for­get to eat.

As on some lone­ly build­ing’s top
The spar­row tells her moan,
Far from the tents of joy and hope
I sit and grieve alone.

My soul is like a wild­er­ness
Where beasts of mid­night howl;
There the sad ra­ven finds her place
And there the scream­ing owl.

Dark, dis­mal thoughts, and bod­ing fears,
Dwell in my trou­bled breast;
While sharp re­proach­es wound my ears,
Nor give my spir­it rest.

My cup is min­gled with my woes,
And tears are my re­past;
My dai­ly bread like ash­es grows
Unpleasant to my taste.

Sense can af­ford no real joy
To souls that feel Thy frown;
Lord, ’twas Thy hand ad­vanced me high
Thy hand hath cast me down.

My looks like wi­thered leaves ap­pear;
And life’s de­clin­ing light
Grows faint as ev­en­ing sha­dows are,
That van­ish in­to night.

But Thou for ev­er art the same,
O my eter­nal God;
Ages to come shall know Thy name,
And spread Thy works abroad.

Thou wilt arise and show Thy face,
Nor will my Lord de­lay
Beyond th’ap­point­ed hour of grace,
That long-ex­pect­ed day.

He hears His saints, He knows their cry,
And by mys­te­ri­ous ways
Redeems the pri­son­ers doomed to die,
And fills their tongues with praise.