By Cool Siloam’s Shady Rill

By cool Si­lo­am’s sha­dy rill

How fair the li­ly grows!

How sweet the breath

be­neath the hill

Of Sha­ron’s 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 Si­lo­am’s 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 man’s ma­tur­er age

Will shake the soul with sor­row’s pow­er

And stor­my pass­ion’s rage.

O Thou

whose in­fant feet were found

Within Thy Fa­ther’s 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.