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The Book of Praise.
When at mid-day my task I ply With labouring hand or watchful eye, I need the timely aid of prayer To guard my soul from worldly care.
Thou, Lord, didst consecrate this hour To mind us of Thy saving power, Thy living water's heavenly spell, The mystery of Jacob's well.
There, about noon, with toil oppress'd, Feebly Thy voice its plaint express'd, " Give Me to drink !" O wondrous woe ! God thirsts, from whom all blessings flow !
He needed not, by whom we live, And only ask'd, that He might give: A mightier want He felt within ; The thirst to save a soul from sin.
Lord, in our pilgrimage of grace, Thy weary footsteps oft we trace ; And in the inner man renew The grief, Thy sacred body knew.
Our spirits faint upon the way, We bear the burden of the day : 'Tis then for strength to Thee we turn, Sit at Thy feet, and wisdom learn.
We ask of Thee, the gift of God, Pure water from the vital flood, To cure our feverish thirst of sin, A well of water deep within.