His voice, as the sound of the dul­ci­mer sweet,
Is heard through the sha­dows of death;
The ce­dars of Le­ba­non bow at His feet,
The air is per­fumed with His breath.
His lips as the fount­ain of right­eous­ness flow,
That wa­ters the gar­den of grace,
From which their sal­va­tion the Gen­tiles shall know,
And bask in the smiles of His face.

O! Thou in whose pre­sence my soul takes de­light,
On whom in af­flic­tion I call;
My com­fort by day, and my song in the night,
My hope, my sal­va­tion, my all—
Where dost Thou at noon­tide re­sort with Thy sheep,
To feed on the pas­tures of love?
Say, why in the val­ley of death should I weep,
Or ’lone in the wil­der­ness rove?

O! why should I wander an ali­en from Thee,
And cry in the de­sert for bread?
Thy foes will re­joice when my sor­rows they see,
And smile at the tears I have shed.
Ye daugh­ters of Zi­on, de­clare, have you seen
The star that on Is­ra­el shone?
Say if in your tents my be­lov­èd hath been,
And where, with His flock, is He gone?

What is thy be­lov­èd, thou dig­ni­fied fair?
What ex­cel­lent beau­ties hath He?
His charms and per­fec­tions be pleased to de­clare,
That we may em­brace Him with thee.
This is my be­lov­èd, His form is di­vine;
His vest­ments shed odor around;
The locks on His head are as grapes on the vine,
When au­tumn with plen­ty is crowned.

The ros­es of Sha­ron, the lil­ies that grow
In the vales, on the banks of the streams
On His cheeks in the beau­ty of ex­cel­lence blow;
His eyes are as qui­vers of beams.
His voice as the sound of the dul­ci­mer sweet
Is heard through the sha­dows of death;
The ce­dars of Le­ba­non bow at His feet,
The air is per­fumed with His breath.