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

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 my soul in prayer.

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.

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.