How tedious and tasteless the hours, When Jesus no longer I see: Sweet prospects, sweet birds, and sweet flow'rs, Have all lost their sweetness to me. The midsummer sun shines but dim, The fields strive in vain to look gay, 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 thus nigh, Have nothing to wish or to fear; No mortal so happy as I, My summer would last all the year.