What tho' no flow'rs the fig-tree clothe,Tho' vines their fruit deny,The labor of the olive fail,And fields no meat supply?Tho' from the fold, with sad surprise,My flock cut off I see;Tho' 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 GodOf my salvation prove.He to my tardy feet shall lendThe swiftness of the roe;Till, raised on high, I safely dwellBeyond 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.
