O thanks, O thanks,
A thou­sand times re­peat­ed,
We know your names,
Ye va­li­ant, faith­ful two;
Your low­est words
Are like a song from Hea­ven;
Ye searched the land
Out bet­ter than ye knew.

When through the camp,
There rings the cry for Egypt,
And all the tribes
Sway back­ward in des­pair,
We turn to you,
Who bear the pur­ple clus­ters,
For still ye say,
Surely the land is fair.

We pray you, friends,
Walk clos­er still be­side us,
Talk with us oft­en
Of the way ye took;
When ye be­held
The figs and po­me­gran­ates,
And plucked the grapes
That grew by Es­chol’s bank.

When doubts, like gloomy
Birds fly on be­fore us,
And clouds ob­scure
The path which must be trod,
Speak low to us
Of Si­nai and its glo­ry,
Repeat the name
Of Is­ra­el’s migh­ty God.