From heart to heart, from creed to creed, The hidden river runs; It quickens all the ages down, It binds the sires to sons— The stream of Faith, whose source is God, Whose sound, the sound of prayer, Whose meadows are the holy lives Upspringing everywhere. And still it moves, a broadening flood; And fresher, fuller, grows. A sense as if the sea were near Towards which the river flows. O Thou who art the secret Source That rises in each soul, Thou art the Ocean, too—thy charm, That ever-deepening roll! |