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.