O Thou in whose pre­sence my soul takes de­light,
On whom in af­flict­ion I call,
My com­fort by day, and my song in the night,
My hope, my sal­va­tion, my all.

Where dost Thou at noon­tide re­sort with Thy sheep,
To feed on the pas­tures of love?
Say, why in the val­ley of death should I weep,
Or alone in the wil­der­ness rove?

O, why should I wan­der an ali­en from Thee,
And cry in the des­ert for bread?
Thy foes will re­joice when my sor­rows they see,
And smile at the tears I have shed.

Ye daugh­ters of Zi­on de­clare, have ye seen
The star that on Is­ra­el shone?
Say, if in your tents my Be­lov­èd has been,
And where, with His flocks, He is gone.

This is my Be­lov­èd; His form is di­vine;
His vest­ments shed odors around:
The locks of His head are as grapes on the vine,
When au­tumn with plen­ty is crowned.

The ros­es of Sha­ron, the li­lies that grow
In vales, on the banks of the streams:
On His cheeks, all the beau­ties of ex­cel­lence glow,
And His eyes are as quiv­ers of beams.

His voice, as the sound of the dul­ci­mer sweet,
Is heard through the sha­dows of death;
The ce­dars of Le­ba­non bow at His feet,
The air is per­fumed with His breath.

His lips as a foun­tain of right­eous­ness flow,
That wa­ters the gar­den of grace,
From which their sal­va­tion the Gen­tiles shall know,
And bask in the smiles of His face.

Love sits on His eye-lids, and scat­ters de­light
Through all the bright man­sions on high;
Their faces the che­ru­bim veil in His sight,
And trem­ble with full­ness of joy.

He looks, and ten thou­sands of an­gels re­joice,
And my­ri­ads wait for His word;
He speaks, and eter­ni­ty, filled with His voice,
Re-echoes the praise of her Lord.

Dear Shep­herd, I hear and will fol­low Thy call;
I know the sweet sound of Thy voice.
Restore and de­fend me, for Thou art my all,
And in Thee I will ev­er re­joice.