Words: Robert Lowth, Praelectiones Academicae de Sacra Poesi Hebraeorum, 1753. Translated from Latin to English by George Gregory, 1787.
As pants the wearied hart for cooling springs,
That sinks exhausted in the summer’s chase,
So pants my soul for Thee, great King of kings,
So thirsts to reach Thy sacred dwelling place.
Why throb, my heart? Why sink, my saddening soul?
Why droop to earth, with various woes oppressed?
My years shall yet in blissful circles roll,
And peace be yet an inmate of this breast.
Lord, Thy sure mercies, ever in my sight,
My heart shall gladden through the tedious day,
And midst the dark and gloomy shades of night,
To Thee, my God, I’ll tune the grateful lay.
Why faint, my soul? Why doubt Jehovah’s aid?
Thy God, the God of mercy, still shall prove;
Within His courts thy thanks shall yet be paid:
Unquestioned be His faithfulness and love.