Good Friday (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 battle-fields,
On fever beds where sick men toss,
Are in that human cry He yields
To anguish on the Cross.

But more than pains that rack'd 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 parch'd dry Lip, that fading Face,
That Thirst were all for me. Amen.