8,8,8,8

My soul thirsteth for God.

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.