On the bleeding wounds of our crucified Lord.
Jesu, no more, it is full tide
From Thy hands and from thy feet,
From Thy head, and from thy side,
All Thy Purple Rivers meet.
Thy restless feet they cannot go.
For us and our eternal good
As they are wont; what though?
They swim, alas! in their own flood.
Thy hand to give thou canst not lift;
Yet will thy hand still giving bee;
It gives, but oh it self's the Gift,
It drops though bound, though bound 'tis free.
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