The King of Love My Shepherd Is

The King of love my Shep­herd is,
Whose good­ness fail­eth nev­er,
I no­thing lack if I am His
And He is mine for­ev­er.

Where streams of liv­ing wa­ter flow
My ran­somed soul He lead­eth,
And where the ver­dant pas­tures grow,
With food ce­les­ti­al feedeth.

Perverse and fool­ish oft I strayed,
But yet in love He sought me,
And on His shoul­der gent­ly laid,
And home, re­joic­ing, brought me.

In death’s dark vale I fear no ill
With Thee, dear Lord, be­side me;
Thy rod and staff my com­fort still,
Thy cross be­fore to guide me.

Thou spread’st a ta­ble in my sight;
Thy unc­tion grace be­stow­eth;
And O what trans­port of de­light
From Thy pure cha­lice flow­eth!

And so through all the length of days
Thy good­ness fail­eth nev­er;
Good Shep­herd, may I sing Thy praise
Within Thy house for­ev­er.

Words: Henry W. Baker, 1868.