Author Isaac Watts Early, my God, without delay, I haste to seek Thy face; My thirsty spirit faints away Without Thy cheering grace. So pilgrims on the scorching sand Beneath a burning sky Long for a cooling stream at hand, And they must drink or die. Tags Short Poems Rate this poem Select ratingGive it 1/5Give it 2/5Give it 3/5Give it 4/5Give it 5/5 No votes yet Rate Log in or register to post comments