We are a gar­den walled around,
Chosen and made pe­cul­iar ground;
A lit­tle spot en­closed by grace,
Out of the world’s wide wil­der­ness.

Like trees of myrrh and spice we stand,
Planted by God the Fa­ther’s hand;
And all His springs in Si­on flow,
To make the young plan­ta­tion grow.

Awake, O, heav’n­ly wind! and come,
Blow on this gar­den of per­fume;
Spirit di­vine! des­cend and breathe
A gra­cious gale on plants be­neath.

Make our best spic­es flow abroad,
To en­ter­tain our Sav­ior God;
And faith, and love, and joy ap­pear,
And ev­ery grace be ac­tive here.

Let my Be­lov­èd come and taste
His plea­sant fruits at His own feast:
I come, My spouse, I come! He cries,
With love and plea­sure in His eyes.

Our Lord in­to His gar­den comes,
Well pleased to smell our poor per­fumes,
And calls us to a feast di­vine,
Sweeter than honey, milk, or wine.

Eat of the tree of life, My friends,
The bless­ings that My Fa­ther sends;
Your taste shall all My dain­ties prove,
And drink abun­dance of My love.

So will we fre­quent of Thy board,
And sing the boun­ties of our Lord;
But the rich food on which we live
Demands more praise than tongues can give.