Thou whom my soul ad­mires above
All earth­ly joy and earth­ly love,
Tell me, dear Shep­herd, let me know,
Where do Thy sweet­est pas­tures grow?

Where is the sha­dow of that rock
That from the sun de­fends Thy flock?
Fain would I feed among Thy sheep
Among them rest, among them sleep.

Why should Thy bride ap­pear like one
That turns aside to paths un­known?
My con­stant feet would ne­ver rove,
Would ne­ver seek an­oth­er love.

The foot­steps of Thy flock I see;
Thy sweet­est pas­tures here they be;
A won­drous feast thy love pre­pares,
Bought with Thy wounds, and groans, and tears.

His dear­est flesh He makes my food,
And bids me drink His rich­est blood:
Here to these hills my soul will come,
Till my be­lov­èd lead me home.