Dessler
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
Forever closed to all but Thee:
Seal Thou my breast, and let me wear
That pledge of love forever 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
Ah, Lord, enlarge our scanty thought
To know the wonders Thou hast wrought;
Unloose our stammering tongues to tell
Thy love immense, unsearchable.