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, without a fear, Lord, shall I to Thee draw near?
2 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.