1 Lord, what a wretched land is this
That yields us no supply,
No cheering fruits, no wholesome trees
Nor streams of living joy?

2 But pricking thorns thro' all the ground,
And mortal poisons grow;
And all the rivers that are found,
With dang'rous waters flow.

3 Yet the dear path to thine abode,
Lies thro' this horrid land:
Lord! we would keep the heav'nly road,
And run at thy command.

4 Our souls shall tread the desert thro'
With undiverted feet:
And faith and flaming zeal subdue,
The terrors that we meet.

5 Our journey is a thorny maze,
But we march upward still;
Forget these troubles of the ways,
And reach at Zion's Hill.