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As pants the wearied hart for cooling springs,
that sinks exhausted in the summer's chase,
so pants my soul for thee, great King of kings,
so thirsts to reach thy sacred dwelling-place.
Lord, thy sure mercies, ever in my sight,
my heart shall gladden through the tedious day;
and 'midst the dark and gloomy shades of night,
to thee, my God, I'll tune the grateful lay.
Why faint, my soul? Why doubt Jehovah's aid?
Thy God, the God of mercy still shall prove;
within his courts thy thanks shall yet be paid:
unquestioned be his faithfulness and love.
Robert Lowth (1710-1787)