Why has my God my soul for­sook,
Nor will a smile af­ford?
Thus Da­vid once in ang­uish spoke,
And thus our dy­ing Lord.

Though ’tis Thy chief de­light to dwell
Among Thy prais­ing saints,
Yet Thou canst hear a groan as well,
And pi­ty our com­plaints.

Our fa­thers trust­ed in Thy name,
And great de­li­ver­ance found;
But I’m a worm, des­pised of men,
And trod­den to the ground.

Shaking the head, they pass me by,
And laugh my soul to scorn;
In vain he trusts in God, they cry,
Neglected and for­lorn.

But Thou art He who formed my flesh
By Thine al­migh­ty Word;
And since I hung up­on the breast,
My hope is in the Lord.

Why will my Fa­ther hide His face,
When foes stand threat­en­ing round,
In the dark hour of deep dis­tress,
And not a help­er found?

Behold Thy dar­ling left among
The cru­el and the proud,
As bulls of Ba­shan, fierce and strong,
As li­ons roar­ing loud.

From earth and hell My sor­rows meet
To mul­ti­ply the smart;
They nail My hands, they pierce My feet,
And try to vex My heart.

Yet if Thy so­ver­eign hand let loose
The rage of earth and hell,
Why will my heav’n­ly Fa­ther bruise
The Son He loves so well?

My God, if pos­si­ble it be,
Withhold this bit­ter cup
But I re­sign My will to Thee,
And drink the sor­rows up.

My heart dis­solves with pangs un­known,
In groans I waste my breath;
Thy hea­vy hand has brought Me down
Low as the dust of death.

Father, I give My Spir­it up,
And trust it in Thy hand;
My dy­ing flesh shall rest in hope,
And rise at Thy com­mand.