His are the thou­sand spark­ling rills
That from a thou­sand foun­tains burst,
And fill with mu­sic all the hills;
And yet He saith, I thirst.

All fie­ry pangs on bat­tle­fields;
On fe­ver beds where sick men toss,
And in that hu­man cry He yields
To ang­uish on the cross.

But more than pains that racked Him then,
Was the deep long­ing thirst di­vine
That thirst­ed for the souls of men:
Dear Lord! and one was mine.

O love most pa­tient, give me grace;
Make all my soul athirst for Thee;
That parched dry lip, that fad­ing face,
That thirst, were all for me.