His Voice, as the Sound of the Dulcimer Sweet

His voice

as the sound of the dul­ci­mer sweet

Is heard through the sha­dows of death;

The ce­dars of Le­ba­non bow at His feet

The air is per­fumed with His breath.

His lips as the fount­ain of right­eous­ness flow

That wa­ters the gar­den of grace

From which their sal­va­tion the Gen­tiles shall know

And bask in the smiles of His face.

O! Thou in whose pre­sence my soul takes de­light

On whom in af­flict­ion I call;

My com­fort by day

and my song in the night

My hope

my sal­va­tion

my all—

Where dost Thou at noon­tide re­sort with Thy sheep

To feed on the pas­tures of love?

Say

why in the val­ley of death should I weep

Or ’lone in the wil­der­ness rove?

O! why should I wander an ali­en from Thee

And cry in the de­sert for bread?

Thy foes will re­joice when my sor­rows they see

And smile at the tears I have shed.

Ye daugh­ters of Zi­on

de­clare

have you seen

The star that on Is­ra­el shone?

Say if in your tents my be­lov­èd hath been

And where

with His flock

is He gone?

What is thy be­lov­èd

thou dig­ni­fied fair?

What ex­cel­lent beau­ties hath He?

His charms and per­fec­tions be pleased to de­clare

That we may em­brace Him with thee.

This is my be­lov­èd

His form is di­vine;

His vest­ments shed odor around;

The locks on His head are as grapes on the vine

When au­tumn with plen­ty is crowned.

The ros­es of Sha­ron

the lil­ies that grow

In the vales

on the banks of the streams

On His cheeks in the beau­ty of ex­cel­lence blow;

His eyes are as qui­vers of beams.

His voice as the sound of the dul­ci­mer sweet

Is heard through the sha­dows of death;

The ce­dars of Le­ba­non bow at His feet

The air is per­fumed with His breath.