His Are the Thousand Sparkling Rills

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.