The Imperishable Fountain

“Whosoever drinketh of this water shall thirst again; but whosoever drinketh of the water that I shall give him shall never thirst.” — John iv. 13, 14.

Our Lord does not say that the objects of worldly ambition are bad, He says they are fleeting. What He denies is not their legitimacy, but their permanence. He says the man who drinks of the earthly fountain will thirst again, the man who drinks of the heavenly fountain will never thirst. What is this magic fountain of abiding waters? It is Love. Love is the only thing which I need never outgrow. I am bound to outgrow everything else. How many gifts to my youth would be gifts to my old age! Wealth, fame, power, physical beauty, are all for the morning and the midday; they are little coveted at evening. But Love in its old age can keep the dew of its youth. I have seen a virtuous attachment, which was formed by the girl and the boy, retain amid the shadows its morning glow. The heart never grows old with time. It may grow old with grief, or bitterness, or care — but not with time. Time has no empire over the heart. It has an empire over the eye, over the ear, over the cheek, over the hand — but not over the heart. The heart may be swept by storms, but not corroded by decay. It keeps no record of the flying years; it is untouched by the winter snow. The inscription upon its gates is ever this: “There shall be no night there.’’

Imperishable water, let me drink of thee! Even here below thou art the only abiding thing, the only permanent protest against my graves. Thou art Christ in me, the hope of glory. Nothing else can be my hope of glory. Other fountains are sealed by the seasons. The sight grows dim; the music grows faint; the penume quits the flower; the eloquence deserts the lips; the arm hangs heavy; the feet lag behind in the race. But thou, my heart, art ever springing even when thou art not singing. There is hope in thy very sorrow; it is thy protest and thy prophecy. Thou holdest thy dead, not in the grave, but in thee; thou waterest the roses round them; thou wilt not let them go. Thy tears are themselves a gush of living water. They are the cry of possession, the claim of right, the refusal to seal the fountain of hope. Thy love is thy hope. Keep it ever flowing; never let it dry! Better it should run with tears than cease to run at all. Its weeping and its joy are alike prophetic; its sighing and its singing are thy springs of endless life.