When Israel’s tribes were parched with thirst,

Forth from the Rock the waters burst;

And all their future journey through,

Yielded them drink and gospel too!

In Moses’ rod, a type they saw,

Of his severe and fiery law;

The smitten rock prefigured him,

From whose pierced side all blessings stream.

But ah! the types were all too faint,

His sorrows or his worth to paint;

Slight was the stroke of Moses’ rod,

But he endured the wrath of God.

Their outward rock could feel no pain,

But ours was wounded, torn and slain;

The rock gave but a wat’ry flood,

But Jesus poured forth streams of blood.

The earth is like their wilderness,

A land of drought and sore distress;

Without one stream from pole to pole,

To satisfy a thirsty soul.

But let the Savior’s praise resound!

In him refreshing streams are found;

Which pardon, strength, and comfort give,

And thirsty sinners drink and live.