A MIRROR is Nature,
And oft, in her face,
Some semblance or feature
Of truth we may trace.
See! how, on the mountain,
Where rivulets teem,
The nearer the fountain,
The purer the stream.
The quietest current
That steals on its course,
The noisiest torrent
That rushes with force,
Proclaim, while they’re flowing,
The truth of the theme —
The nearer the fountain,
The purer the stream.
Though men may, by stud.
And toil, learn to preach,
Their thoughts will be muddy,
And truth never reach.
Their learning is lumber,
Their wisdom a dream;
For man is their fountain,
And folly their stream.
Some, Christ own as precious,
In Him have their part,
Yet seldom refresh us,
Or comfort the heart.
‘Tis plain that they hold not
This truth in esteem:
‘Tis but at The Fountain
That fresh is the stream.
Our God, ever living,
Of joy is The Source,
And freely is giving
Us strength in our course.
May we on His Mountain,
Where life ever teems,
Be filled in His Fountain,
O’erflow with His streams.
T.