156. His are the thousand sparkling rills
8.8.8.6
Isleworth:
Samuel Howard (1710-1782)
Cecil Frances Alexander, 1875
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, Are 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. | |