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?

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.