- by Isaac Watts
Who is this fair one in distress,
That travels from the wilderness?
And pressed with sorrows and with sins,
On her belovèd Lord she leans.
This is the spouse of Christ our God,
Bought with the treasure of His blood;
And her request and her complaint
Is but the voice of every saint.
“O let my name engraven stand
Both on Thy heart and on Thy hand;
Seal me upon Thine arm, and wear
That pledge of love for ever there.
“Stronger than death Thy love is known,
Which floods of wrath could never drown;
And hell and earth in vain combine
To quench a fire so much divine.
“But I am jealous of my heart,
Lest it should once from Thee depart;
Then let Thy Name be well impressed,
As a fair signet on my breast.
“Till Thou hast brought me to Thy home,
Where fears and doubts can never come,
Thy countenance let me often see,
And often Thou shalt hear from me.
“Come, my Belovèd, haste away,
Cut short the hours of Thy delay;
Fly like a youthful hart or roe
Over the hills where spices grow.”