PASSIONTIDE: GOOD FRIDAY
117
SAFFRON WALDEN. (8 8. 8 6.)
Slow 𝅗𝅥 = 76.
A. H. Brown.
Mrs. C. F. Alexander, 1823-95.
'I thirst.'
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.'
2 All fiery pangs on battlefields,
On fever beds where sick men toss,
Are in that human cry he yields
To anguish on the Cross.
3 * 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.
4. O Love most patient, give me grace;
Make all my soul athirst for thee:
That parched dry lip, that fading face,
That thirst, were all for me.
Or the following:
