Early, my God, without delay,

I haste to seek thy face;

My thirsty spirit faints away

Without thy cheering grace.

2 So pilgrims on the scorching sand,

Beneath a burning sky,

Long for a cooling stream at hand,

And they must drink or die.

3 Not life itself, with all its joys,

Can my best passions move,

Or raise so high my cheerful voice,

As thy forgiving love.

4 Thus, till my last expiring day,

I’ll bless my God and King;

Thus will I lift my hands to pray,

And tune my lips to sing.