Weary pil­grim, will you go
Where the liv­ing wa­ters flow,
Where the fount­ain deep and still
Flows from Zi­on’s bless­èd hill?

Soft the ver­dure by its side
Clear as crys­tal is its tide;
Sunshine lights the rip­ples o’er
As they soft­ly bathe the shore.

Weary of the world­ly strife,
Thirsting for a nob­ler life,
To the fount­ain quick­ly speed;
It will sa­tis­fy your need.

When by care and toil op­pressed,
Seek that bless­èd fount and rest;
Rest thee on its peace­ful shore;
Drink, and thou shalt thirst no more.