Isaac Watts, 1674-1748
With earnest longings of the mind,|
My God, to thee I look;
So pants the hunted hart to find
And taste the cooling brook.
2. When shall I see thy courts of grace,
3. Temptations vex my weary soul,
4. Tis with a mournful pleasure now|
I think on ancient days;
Then to thy house did numbers go,
And all our work was praise.
5. But why, my soul, sunk down so far
6. Hope in the Lord, whose mighty hand
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