MY food is but spare, 

And humble my cot. 

Yet Jesus dwells there

And blesses my lot, 

Though thinly I'm clad, 

And tempests oft roll, 

He is raiment, and bread, 

And drink, to my soul.

His presence is wealth,

His grace is a treasure; 

His promise is health

And joy out of measure; 

His word is my rest,

His Spirit my guide; 

In him I am blest,

Whatever betide.

Since Jesus is mine,

Farewell to all sorrow; 

I will not repine,

Nor think of to-morrow. 

The lily so fair,

And raven so black, 

He nurses with care,

Then how shall I lack?