Although the vine its fruit deny, The budding fig-tree droop and die

Verse 1

Although the vine its fruit deny, The budding fig-tree droop and die, No oil the olive yield; Yet will I trust me in my God, Yea, bend rejoicing to His rod, And by His grace be heal'd.

Verse 2

Though fields, in verdure once array'd, By whirlwinds desolate be laid, Or parch'd by scorching beam; Still in the Lord shall be my trust, My joy; for, though His frown is just, His mercy is supreme.

Verse 3

Though from the folds the flock decay, Though herds lie famish'd o'er the lea, And round the empty stall; My soul above the wreck shall rise, Its better joys are in the skies; There God is all in all.

Verse 4

In God my strength, howe'er distrest, I yet will hope, and calmly rest, Nay, triumph in His love: My lingering soul, my tardy feet, Free as the hind He makes, and fleet, To speed my course above.