As the hart, with eager looks,

Panteth for the water-brooks,

So my soul, athirst for Thee,

Pants the loving God to see:

When, O when, with filial fear,

Lord, shall I to Thee draw near?

Tears my food by night, by day,

Grief consumes my strength away;

While his craft the Tempter plies,

"Where is now Thy God?" he cries;

This would sink me to despair

But I pour my soul in prayer.

For, in happier times, I went,

Where the multitudes frequent;

I, with them, was wont to bring

Homage to Thy courts, my King!

I with them was wont to raise

Festal hymns on holy days.

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.