A fountain! cries the man of God,

A fountain! cries the man of God,
A fountain with a purple flood;
A fountain opened for the poor,
Where sickly souls may find a cure.

It softens well the heart of stone,
And kindly knits a broken bone,
Restoring hearing, speech, and sight,
And puts all guilty fears to flight.

It heals the soul of feverish heat,
And helps a pulse with grace to beat;
The fretful look, the wanton eye,
And lordly self before it fly.

No spring like this makes lepers whole,
Not that renowned Bethesda's pool,
Nor Siloam's stream, nor Jordan's flood,
Were altogether half so good.

Fast by this fountain let me stay,
And drink, and wash my sores away;
If but a moment I depart,
Sick is my head, and faint my heart.