I thirst, Thou wounded Lamb of God, To wash me in Thy cleansing blood, To dwell within Thy wounds; then pain Is sweet, and life or death is gain.

Take my poor heart, and let it be For ever closed to all but Thee! Seal Thou my breast, and let me wear That pledge of love for ever there.

How can it be, Thou heav'nly King, That Thou shouldst us to glory bring? Make slaves the partner of thy throne, Decked with never-fading crown?

Hence our hearts melt, our eyes overflow, Our words are lost: nor will we know, Nor will we think of aught beside, "My Lord, my love is crucified!"