His are the thousand sparkling rills
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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 anguished face, that thirst, were all for me. |
Cui tot fluenta pertinent collesque cantibus suis tot orta finibus replent, torret-ne eum sitis? Febres homo cum homine quid sint et vulnera sciens, se scire monstrat in Cruce sitire se fatens. At eum torruit sitis tunc altera et divinior, id est humani generis eheu! meique amor. Sic passe Amor, feras opem: consumar invicem siti. Habes-ne arentis faciem? Per me stat id tibi. |