Within the land thou giv'st me to inherit, Where evermore the fragrant South wind blows, I dwell with heart of flame and thirsting spirit — For here no well of cooling water flows.
Where the sweet rills through earth's deep veins are flowing, The lily at some hidden spring is nursed; On its frail stem the asphodel is blowing, While I, thy child, I perish here of thirst!
Thou who, when pale affliction's sons and daughters Came to Bethesda's healing font to lave, Saw where they watch'd beside the silent waters, And sent an angel down to touch the wave —
Thou who, when wandering Israel, parched and dying, Unto the prophet cried in sore distress, Heard, and in mercy to their plaint replying, Bade the flood gush amid the wilderness —
Hear me! To Thee my soul in suppliance turneth, Like the lorn pilgrim on the sands accursed; For life's sweet waters, God! my spirit yearneth —Give me to drink! I perish here of thirst!