The poem
(Isaiah, xii.1)
I will praise Thee every day Now Thine anger's turn'd away; Comfortable thoughts arise From the bleeding sacrifice.
Here, in the fair gospel-field, Wells of free salvation yield Stream of life, a plenteous store, And my soul shall thirst no more.
Jesus is become at length My salvation and my strength; And His praises shall prolong, While I live, my pleasant song.
Praise ye, then, His glorious name, Publish His exalted fame! Still His worth your praise exceeds; Excellent are all His deeds.
Raise again the joyful sound. Let the nations roll it round! Zion, shout! for this is He; God the Saviour dwells in thee.