Whilst We Are Marching Through


Whilst we are marching thro’
This Land, with Drought accurs’d,
Rivers of living Waters flow,
In thee, to quench our Thirst.

This World’s a weary land;
By Sin, a Desart made:
‘Tis all around a burning Strand;
Has no refreshing Shade.

But thou’rt our mighty Rock;
Thy Shadow very great!
Where all thy weary Pilgrim-Flock
Find a divine Retreat.

Tho’ once with Sin oppress’d,
From which no Part was free;
Our Grievances are now redress’d,
Dear, glorious Man, in thee.

In thee we now have found
What’er we lost, and more;
We see thy Grace much more abound,
Than Sin had done before.

Thy Praise be our Employ;
Thy Glories ever shine:
All our Salvation, Hope, and Joy,
Art thou, O Man divine!