Tell me, Savior, from above,
Dearest object of my love,
Where thy little flock abide,
Shelter’d near thy bleeding side.

Wilt thou let me run astray,
Mourning, grieving all the day?
Wilt thou bear to see me rove,
Seeking base and mortal love?

Tell me Shepherd, all divine,
Where I may my soul recline?
Where for refuge shall I fly,
While the burning sun is high?

Recordings 1, 2