There is a tale of olden Bible days,
That selfless valor's just award portrays.
Tis told, with every entrance closely barred
To his ancestral town by foes on guard,
That in the heart of David longing woke,
And, stirred by joys recalled, this wish he spoke:
Oh, that someone would give, my thirst to sate,
Water of Bethlehem's well, beside the gate!
At this, three mighty men, with bold emprise,
Brake through the hostile lines; secured the prize;
Then, triumphing, their leader's side regained.
But, since in jeopardy extreme obtained,
He would not drink thereof; instead, outpoured
The dear-bought gift an offering to his Lord.
Let us ofttimes with reverent thanks recall
The dauntless ones who hazarded their all;
Dared human hatred, braved the mental shaft,
To make our earthly cup a sweeter draft:
The prophets, our great Master,—warriors true,—
And her who cleared life's hidden path anew.
To these we owe our understanding pure,
A welling spring whence issue health and cure.
Ah, well of Bethlehem! however rare,
Ours is a fountain far beyond compare:
They only thirst again that quaff thy flow;
Who drink of Truth full satisfaction know.
Then, having taken freely, can we choose
This hallowed boon for self alone to use?
Avowal better never was designed
Than living streams poured out to heal mankind.
Thus barren ground will blossom as the rose,
And Spirit's fruit abound where error grows.
So do we best earth's mighty ones reward:
By Christly service offered to our Lord.
