Abana was a ri­ver
That near Da­mas­cus run;
Its bank of palms and ros­es
Lay beau­te­ous in the sun.
Now by the bright Aba­na
Did Naa­man re­side,
And oft the dimp­ling wa­ters
Beheld with joy and pride.

But Naa­man, the vic­tor,
Became a le­per there;
Was pi­tied by a cap­tive,
A child of faith and pray­er;
She told him of a pro­phet
That could a le­per heal,
And to his mind in sor­row
The liv­ing God re­veal.

This lit­tle mis­sion­ary
The con­quer­or be­lieved,
And jour­neyed to the pro­phet,
Who glad­ly him re­ceived.
He washed in Jordan’s ri­ver,
And was to health re­stored,
Then came he to Aba­na,
Rejoicing in the Lord.

All may be mis­sion­ar­ies,
About their dai­ly care,
And speak of faith in Je­sus,
And help that comes from pray­er.
Some soul op­pressed by sor­row
May list­en to the word,
Like Naa­man the le­per,
And turn and seek the Lord.