L.M. 1 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.
2 Take my poor heart, and let it be For ever closed to all but thee! Seal thou my breast, and let me we; That pledge of love for ever there!
3 How blest are they who still abide Close sheltered in thy bleeding side, Who life and strength from thence derive, And by thee move, and in thee live.
4 What are our works but sin and death, Till thou thy quickening Spirit breathe! Thou giv'st the power thy grace to move; O wondrous grace! O boundless love!
5 How can it be, thou heavenly King, That thou shouldst us to glory bring? Make slaves the partners of thy throne, Decked with a never-fading crown?
6 Hence our hearts melt, our eyes o'erflow, Our words are lost; nor will we know, Nor will we think of aught beside, "My Lord, my Love is crucified."
7 Ah, Lord! enlarge our scanty thought, To know the wonders thou hast wrought; Unloose our stammering tongues, to tell Thy love immense, unsearchable.
8 First-born of many brethren thou! To thee, lo! all our souls we bow: To thee our hearts and hands we give: Thine may we die, thine may we live!
