Withers, and the toiled heart perisheth,—
Entered the caveat of your death.
Christ in the form of His true Bride,
Again hung pierced and crucified,
And groaned, “I thirst!” Not still ye stood,—
Ye had your hearts, ye had your blood;
And pouring out the eager cup,—
“The wine is weak, yet, Lord Christ, sup.”
Ah, blest! who bathed the parched Vine
With richer than His Cana-wine,