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 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.