What though no flow’rs the fig-tree clothe,

though vines their fruit deny,

The labour of the olive fail,

and fields no meat supply?

Though from the fold, with sad surprise,

my flock cut off I see;

Though famine pine in empty stalls,

where herds were wont to be?

Yet in the Lord will I be glad,

and glory in his love;

In him I’ll joy, who will the God

of my salvation prove.

He to my tardy feet shall lend

the swiftness of the roe;

Till, raised on high, I safely dwell

beyond the reach of woe.

God is the treasure of my soul,

the source of lasting joy;

A joy which want shall not impair,

nor death itself destroy.