It’s said that hope oft times runs dry,
Amid this plague of tepid dreams;
Yet my heart swells its flesh-dulled cry
Against this solemn, desert-claim.

For here, I find my soul adrift
Amid a well-spilt sea of hope;
Yet I, the time-worn sailor lift
My cup, and drinking, parch my heart.

For this vast sea of liquid promise
E’er amix with salt and sin,
Must tear my palate-heart asunder,
Felled now to these dark planks again.

Oh! Come again, Thou day-bright Shore
That cradles mid Your inland folds—
And to its depths surrender me—
The tear-less pond that Mercy filled
That my dark heart could never stain.

That I, a man adrift at sea,
Might quench my thirsty heart in Thee.