I thirst, but not as once I did,
The vain de­lights of earth to share;
Thy wounds, Em­ma­nu­el, all for­bid,
That I should seek my plea­sures there.

It was the sight of Thy dear cross,
First weaned my soul from earth­ly things;
And taught me to es­teem as dross,
The mirth of fools and pomp of kings.

I want that grace that springs from Thee
That quick­ens all things where it flows;
And makes a wretch­ed thorn, like me,
Bloom as the myr­tle, or the rose.

Dear fount­ain of de­light un­known!
No long­er sink be­low the brim;
But ov­er­flow, and pour me down
A liv­ing, and life-giv­ing stream!

For sure, of all the plants that share
The no­tice of Thy Fa­ther’s eye;
None proves less grate­ful to His care,
Or yields Him mean­er fruit than I.