Those old wooden logs
The water has flown through,
These many, many years;
'Tis time that we had new;
Improvement is the cry,
And we throw them useless by.

Iron take their place,
More permanent and sure;
Through which the stream will run
Abundantly, and pure;
And all shall drink their fill
From the sweet, unfailing rill.

Through its hollow way
The stream runs under ground;
No eye beholds its course,
No ear can catch its sound;
Till it sparkles forth again,
In the glad abodes of men.

Like it is to deeds,
Unconscious Worth doth hide;
In secret silence done,
Without a throb of pride;
They too shall one day shine,
With a radiance all divine.

Patriarchs and kings
Have gained their noblest fame,
In peaceful works like these;
And left enduring name;
Tradition still can tell,
Who dug old Sichem's well.

Ever may it flow!
Within our homes, 'twill prove
An ever-during type
Of Purity and Love,
'Twill give to sickness health,
And raise poverty to wealth.