I TO THE HILLS WILL LIFT

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 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.

What are our works but sin and death,

Till Thou Thy quickening Spirit breathe?

Thou givest the power, Thy grace doth move:

O wondrous grace! O boundless love!

Ah, Lord, enlarge our scanty thought

To know the wonders Thou hast wrought;

Unloose our stammering tongues to tell

Thy love immense, unsearchable. ......