I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help. Psalm 121:1–2
Come lead me to some lofty shade
Where turtles moan their loves;
Tall shadows were for lovers made;
And grief becomes the groves.
’Tis no mean beauty of the ground
That has enslaved mine eyes;
I faint beneath a nobler wound,
Nor love below the skies.
Jesus, the spring of all that’s bright,
The everlasting fair,
Heav’n’s ornament, and Heav’n’s delight,
Is my eternal care.
But ah! how far above this grove
Does the bright charmer dwell!
Absence, thou keenest wound to love,
That sharpest pain, I feel.
Pensive I climb the sacred hills,
And near Him vent my woes;
Yet His sweet face He still conceals,
Yet still my passion grows.
I murmur to the hollow vale,
I tell the rocks my flame,
And bless the echo in her cell
That best repeats His name.
My passion breathes perpetual sighs,
Till pitying winds shall hear,
And gently bear them up the skies,
And gently wound His ear.