1 The fountain in its source
No drought of summer fears;
The further it pursues its course,
The nobler it appears.

2 But shallow cisterns yield
A scanty, short supply;
The morning sees them amply filled,
At evening they are dry.

3 The cisterns I forsake,
O Fount of life, for Thee!
My thirst with living waters slake,
And drink eternity.