O Lamb of God, O, Lamb that once wast slain,
We walk among the pastures of Thy land,
Thy meads and founts spread out on every hand,
And long to see Thee feeding here again.

Thou art our Shepherd — Thou the expert, the bold —
Thy mighty rod defends the gentle flock;
The erring Thou restrainest with Thy crook;
At eventide Thou leadest them to the fold.

At noon, Thou guidest unto cooling springs;
Sultry the blazing sun may heat the hills;
In quiet meadows, by the singing rills,
We lie refreshed, while our sweet Shepherd sings.

And O, beloved Pastor, lest the harms
Of the rude rocks should wound their tender feet,
Thou, strong to save, and in Thy mercies sweet,
Dost take our little Lambs within Thine arms.

Thou art the door, the entrance to the fold;
Through Thee we joyful pass: we know Thy voice;
Yet call us , Lord! O, how we will rejoice!
There is no hunger there, no pinching cold.

Where Thou art, all is safety, all is rest;
Harmless the ravening wolf may seek his prey;
The robber vainly haunts the midnight way,
While we repose in safety on Thy breast.

O, tender One! and did our Shepherd bleed —
Bleed for our sorrows? when, midst galling storm,
And blows, and sweat, and scourge, and poisonous thorn,
Thou, Jesus, died — was it for us, indeed?

Yes, yes, for us: then let us follow on;
No more to lag, unwilling, on the way;
No more from thy dear person, Lord, to stray;
But close and loving, till life's day is done.