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.