Should fa­mine o’er the mourn­ing field
Extend her de­so­lat­ing reign,
Nor spring her bloom­ing beau­ties yield,
Nor au­tumn swell the food­ful grain.
Should low­ing herds and blea­ting sheep
Around their fam­ished mas­ter die;
And hope itself des­pair­ing weep,
While life de­plores its last sup­ply:

Amid the dark, and death­ful scene,
If I can say, The Lord is mine,
The joy shall tri­umph o’er the pain,
And glo­ry dawn, though life de­cline.
The God of my sal­va­tion lives,
My nob­ler life He will sus­tain;
His Word im­mor­tal vi­gor gives,
Nor shall my glo­ri­ous hopes be vain.

Thy pre­sence, Lord, can cheer my heart,
Though ev­ery earth­ly com­fort die;
Thy smile can bid my pains de­part,
And raise my sac­red plea­sures high.
O let me hear Thy bliss­ful voice,
Inspiring life and joys d­ivine!
The bar­ren de­sert shall re­joice,
’Tis pa­ra­dise, if Thou art mine.