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By cool Siloam's shady rill


By cool Siloamís shady rill
How fair the lily grows!
How sweet the breath, beneath the hill,
Of Sharonís dewy rose!

Lo! such the child whose early feet
The paths of peace have trod,
Whose secret heart, with influence sweet,
Is upward drawn to God.

By cool Siloamís shady rill
The lily must decay;
The rose that blooms beneath the hill
Must shortly fade away.

And soon, too soon, the wintry hour
Of manís maturer age
Will shake the soul with sorrowís power
And stormy passionís rage.

O Thou Whose infant feet were found
Within Thy Fatherís shrine,
Whose years with changeless virtue crowned,
Were all alike divine.

Dependent on Thy bounteous breath,
We seek Thy grace alone,
In childhood, manhood, age, and death
To keep us still Thine own.

 

         

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