1 As the hart, with eager looks,
Panteth for the water-brooks,
So my soul, athirst for Thee,
Pants the living God to see;
When, O when, with filial fear,
Lord, shall I to Thee draw near?

2 Tears my food by night, by day,
Grief consumes my strength away;
While his craft the tempter plies,
"Where is now thy God?" he cries;
This would sink me to despair,
But I pour soul in prayer.

3 For in happier times I went,
Where the multitudes frequent;
I, with them, was wont to bring
Homage to Thy courts, my King:
I, with them, was wont to raise
Festal hymns on holy days.

4 Why art thou cast down, my soul?
God, thy God, shall make thee whole;
Why art thou disquieted?
God shall lift thy fallen head;
And His countenance benign
Be the saving health of thine.