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
