| By cool Siloam’s shady rillHow fair the lily grows!
 How sweet the breath, beneath the hill,
 Of Sharon’s dewy rose!
 Lo! such the child whose early feetThe paths of peace have trod,
 Whose secret heart, with influence sweet,
 Is upward drawn to God.
 By cool Siloam’s shady rillThe lily must decay;
 The rose that blooms beneath the hill
 Must shortly fade away.
 And soon, too soon, the wintry hourOf man’s maturer age
 Will shake the soul with sorrow’s power
 And stormy passion’s rage.
 O Thou Whose infant feet were foundWithin 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.
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