It springeth within, till his journey is o’er;
Ho! each one that thirsteth; the lofty, the low,
Come all to the fount I have bidden to flow.
5.
Oh these are the tidings so sweet to mine ear;
My sorrows are vanished, my spirit is clear!
Mine alms are worth little; my labour is vain,
My penance, unable this peace to obtain;
The treasures of Ophir, too poor a reward,
To purchase this peace—’tis the gift of the Lord.