How te­di­ous and taste­less the hours,
When Je­sus no long­er I see;
Sweet pros­pects, sweet birds and sweet flow­ers,
Have all lost their sweet­ness to me;
The mid­sum­mer sun shines but dim,
The fields strive in vain to look gay;
But when I am hap­py in Him,
December’s as plea­sant as May.

His name yields the rich­est per­fume,
And sweet­er than mu­sic His voice;
His presence dis­perses my gloom,
And makes all with­in me re­joice;
I should, were He al­ways thus nigh,
Have no­thing to wish or to fear;
No mor­tal as happy as I,
My sum­mer would last all the year.

Content with be­hold­ing His face,
My all to His plea­sure re­signed,
No chang­es of sea­son or place,
Would make any change in my mind:
While blessed with a sense of His love,
A pa­lace a toy would ap­pear;
All pri­sons would pa­lac­es prove,
If Je­sus would dwell with me there.

Dear Lord, if in­deed I am Thine,
If Thou art my sun and my song,
Say, why do I lang­uish and pine,
And why are my win­ters so long?
O drive these dark clouds from the sky,
Thy soul cheer­ing pre­sence re­store;
Or take me to Thee up on high,
Where win­ter and clouds are no more.