1 Whilst we are marching thro'
This land with drought accurs'd,
Rivers of living waters flow,
In thee to quench our thirst.

2 This world's a weary land;
By sin, a desart made:
'Tis all around a burning strand;
Has no refreshing shade.

3 But thou'rt our mighty rock;
Thy shadow very great!
Where all thy weary pilgrim flock
Find a divine retreat.

4 Tho' once with sin oppress'd,
From which no part was free;
Our grievances are now redress'd,
Dear, glorious man, in thee.

5 In thee we now have found
What'er we lost, and more;
We see thy grace much more abound,
Than sin had done before.

6 Thy praise be our employ;
Thy glories ever shine:
All our salvation, hope, and joy,
Art thou, O Man divine!