A Hymn of Praise after the Sacrament

LOrd, thou our bless'd Physician art,
Who for our Souls didst die;
Thou dost thy precious Blood impart,
Our Souls to purifie.

When sin and sickness did appear,
And nought could do us good,
A Med'cine then thou didst prepare,
To heal us with thy Blood.

Thou art, O Lord, our glorious Sun,
Light, Heat and Life's from thee;
And thou upon our Souls has shone,
By which we quickned be.

A Banquet rich thou dost provide,
A Table of Fat things;
To feast our Souls, O let us eat
And drink of thy own Springs.

The Feast is thine, of thine own cost,
The Lamb is of thy Fold;
It is the best in all the Flock,
More precious far than Gold.

No spot in him was ever found,
No blemish, but all pure;
Yet for us he had many wounds,
Thy wrath he did endure.

He drank the bitter of the Cup,
That no wrath might remain,
That we might drink in draughts of love,
And come to life again,

And spend our days upon the Earth
In joy, through thy sweet Spirit,
Until we come thy glory great
In Heaven to inherit.