O Lord, there is a hiding-place,
Where, unconcerned, we hear the sound,
Though storm and tempest rage around.
2When, wandering o'er the desert bare
Of burning sands and sultry air,
We've sought the cheerless region through,
But found no stream to meet our view,--
'Tis then, the rivers of thy love,
Descending from thy throne above,
Supply our wants, and soothe our pain,