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 crown'd,

Were all alike Divine;

Dependant on Thy bounteous breath,

We seek Thy grace alone,

In childhood, manhood, age, and death,

To keep us still Thine own!