1 Should famine o’er the mourning field
Extend her desolating reign,
Nor spring her blooming beauties yield,
Nor autumn swell the foodful grain.
Should lowing herds and bleating sheep
Around their famished master die;
And hope itself despairing weep,
While life deplores its last supply:
2 Amid the dark, and deathful scene,
If I can say, "The Lord is mine,"
The joy shall triumph o’er the pain,
And glory dawn, though life decline.
The God of my salvation lives,
My nobler life He will sustain;
His Word immortal vigor gives,
Nor shall my glorious hopes be vain.
3 Thy presence, Lord, can cheer my heart,
Though every earthly comfort die;
Thy smile can bid my pains depart,
And raise my sacred pleasures high.
O let me hear Thy blissful voice,
Inspiring life and joys divine!
The barren desert shall rejoice,
’Tis paradise, if Thou art mine.