Hymn CCXXIV. Long Metre

Should famine o'er the mourning field, Extend her desolating reign; Nor spring her blooming beauties yield, Nor autumn swell the ripening grain.

Should lowing heards and bleating sheep Around their famish'd master die; And hope itself expiring weep, Whilst life deplores its last supply.

Amidst the dark, the deathful scene, If I can say, the Lord is mine; The joy shall triumph o'er the pain, And glory dawn, tho' life decline.

The God of my salvation lives, My nobler life he will sustain; His word immortal vigour gives, Nor shall my hope or trust be vain.

Thy presence, Lord, can cheer my heart; Tho' every earthly comfort die; Thy love can bid my pain depart, And raise my sacred pleasures high.

O let me hear thy blissful voice, Inspiring life and joys divine, The barren desart shall rejoice, 'Tis paradise if thou be mine.