For Him the wilderness did not sing,
Nor the desolate place rejoice—
Nor as the rose did the desert bloom,
Nor the wastes lift up their voice.
The glory of Lebanon was not there,
Nor the shittah nor myrtle sweet;
Nor was the place of His sojourning fair,
Nor glorious the place of His feet.
Through the great and terrible waste He trod,
Where water springs were none—
In the weary desert alone with God,
And His heritage God alone.
No way in the desert prepared for Him,
Nor the mountains and hills made low-
Nor the crooked straight, nor the rough ways plain,
Where His pilgrim feet must go.
O Father, Thy care is not to make
The desert a waste no more,
But to keep our feet lest we lose the track
Where His feet have gone before.
Thou carest not that the rose should bloom,
Nor the myrtle where we must tread;
Nor to make the fir and the cedar tree
A shadow above our head.
But Thou carest that, though this earth we tread
We walk in the light above,
That we sit in His shadow with great delight,
And feed on the fruit of His love.
Thou carest that in the pastures green,
And where the still water flows,
In the midst of the paradise of our God,
We should find our deep repose.
And Thy Spirit doth give us deep, full joy,
As through the wilds we roam,
Atuning our hearts with songs of praise,
On our way to our Father's Home.
Whilst yet we walk through the weary land,
Where we bear the outcast name,
Where the foxes have holes, and the birds have nests,
And our Lord the cross of shame,
Apart from all, in the joy we dwell
Which the eye hath never seen—
'Tis a dry and a thirsty land below,
But above the fields are green.
Where He is no more the outcast Man,
But the Lamb whom all adore,
Where in fullest measure our joy and song,
Continue for evermore.