What though no flowers the fig tree clothe, Though vines their fruit deny, The labor of the olive fail, And fields no meat supply? Though from the fold, with sad surprise, My flock cut off I see; Though famine pine in empty stalls, Where herds were wont to be? Yet in the Lord will I be glad, And glory in His love; In Him I’ll joy, who will the God Of my salvation prove. He to my tardy feet shall lend The swiftness of the roe; Till, raised on high, I safely dwell Beyond the reach of woe. God is the treasure of my soul, The source of lasting joy; A joy which want shall not impair, Nor death itself destroy.