When our purest delights are nipt in the blossom,

When those we love best are laid low;

When grief plants in secret her thorn in the bosom,

Deserted—“to whom shall we go?”

2 When, with error bewildered, our path becomes dreary,

And tears of despondency flow:

When the whole head is sick, and the whole heart is weary,

Despairing—“to whom shall we go?”

3 Where the sad, thirsty soul turns away from the springs

Of pleasure this world can bestow,

And sighs for another, and flatters its wings,

Impatient—“to whom shall we go?”

4 O blest be that light which has parted the clouds,

And a path to the pilgrim can show;

That pierces the vail which the future enshrouds,

And tells us to whom we shall go!