How tedious and tasteless the hours
When Jesus no longer I see;
Sweet prospects, sweet birds and sweet flowers
Have lost all their sweetness for me:
The midsummer sun shines but dim,
The fields appear somber and gray,
But when I am happy in Him,
December’s as pleasant as May.
His name yields the richest perfume,
And sweeter than music His voice;
His presence disperses my gloom
And makes all within me rejoice;
I should, were He always so nigh,
Have nothing to wish or to fear;
No mortal so happy as I:
My summer would last the whole year.