The rushes are black by the river bed, br And the sheep and the cattle stand br Wistful-eyed, where the waters were, br In a waste of gravel and sand; br Or pass o'er their dying and dead to slake br Their thirst at the slimy pool. br Shall they pine and perish in pangs of drought br While Thy river, O God, is full. br br The fields are furrowed, the seed is sown, br But no dews from the heavens are shed; br And where shall the grain for the harvest be? br And how shall the poor be fed? br In waterless gullies they winnow the earth, br New-turned by the miner's tool; br And the way-farer faints 'neath his lightened load,1 br Yet the river of God is full. br br For us, O Father, from tropic seas, br Let the clouds be filled that shed br Rough rains upon Andes' eastward slope, br Soft snows on Himàleh's head.