1 Should famine o’er the mourning field
Extend her desolating reign,
Nor spring her blooming beauties yield,
Nor autumn swell the fruitful grain:

2 Should lowing herds, and bleating sheep,
Around their famish’d master die;
And hope itself despairing weep,
While life deplores its last supply:

3 Amid the dark, the deathful scene,
If I can say, the Lord is mine!
The joy shall triumph o’er the pain,
And glory dawn, though life decline.

4 The God of my salvation lives;
My nobler life he will sustain;
His word immortal vigor gives,
Nor shall my glorious hopes be vain.

5 Thy presence, Lord, can cheer my heart,
Though ev’ry earthly comfort die;
Thy smile can bid my pains depart,
And raise my sacred pleasures high.

6 O let me hear thy blissful voice,
Inspiring life and joys divine!
The barren desert shall rejoice;
‘Tis paradise, if thou art mine.

Added by

Blessy Christlin


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