I Thirst, But Not As Once I Did, The Vain Delights Of Earth To Share; Thy Wounds, Emmanuel, All Forbid That I Should Seek My Pleasures There. It Was The Sight Of Thy Dear Cross First Wean'D My Soul From Earthly Things; And Taught Me To Esteem As Dross The Mirth Of Fools And Pomp Of Kings. I Want That Grace That Springs From Thee, That Quickens All Things Where It Flows, And Makes A Wretched Thorn Like Me Bloom As The Myrtle Or The Rose. Dear Fountain Of Delight Unknown! No Longer Sink Below The Brim; But Over Flow, And Pour Me Down A Living And Life-Giving Stream! For Sure, Of All The Plants That Share The Notice Of Thy Father'S Eye, None Proves Less Grateful To His Care, Or Yields Him Meaner Fruit Than I.