A Psalm For The Drought

A psalm of rest seems mocking me
No flock upon this path I see
My shoulders ache beneath my load
So weary is the soul

When have we lain in pastures fresh?
For many a mile, I must confess
My lips could not your promise vaunt

I shall not want
I shall not want

What comfort is a beating rod?
Your staff around my neck oh God
No, every blow was meant to heal
And by your staff you guide

Through snares and pits I failed to see
Your discipline has sheltered me
Distrust shall not my courage daunt

I shall not want
I shall not want

If I, the only wounded sheep
The shepherd’s lonely footsteps lead
Shall I turn back for want of streams?
Or pasture golden dry?

Or shall I follow faithful
Though you spread an empty table?
Shall I stay though deathly shadows haunt?

I shall not want
I shall not want

For from the cracked and splintered board
Shall spring a feast—a fountain stored
Yes, quiet streams shall sing again
And pastures come alive

Your mercy I shall ever know
My cup at last shall overflow
No more shall foes or feelings taunt

I shall not want
I shall not want

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