What tho' no flow'rs the fig-tree clothe, Tho' vines their fruit deny, The labor of the olive fail, And fields no meat supply? Tho' from the fold, with sad surprise, My flock cut off I see; Tho' famine pine in empty stalls, Where herds were wont to be? Yet in the Lord will I be glad, And glory in his love: In him I'll joy, who will the God Of my salvation prove. He to my tardy feet shall lend The swiftness of the roe; Till, raised on high, I safely dwell Beyond the reach of woe. God is the treasure of my soul, The source of lasting joy; A joy which want shall not impair, Nor death itself destroy.
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