What though no flow'rs the fig-tree clothe,
though vines their fruit deny,
The labour of the olive fail,
and fields no meat supply?
Though from the fold, with sad surprise,
my flock cut off I see;
Though 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.