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Cherith

 

Thy camp is pitched by Cherith stream,

The hamlet of thy love, thy means,

And running low the crystal drains away,

Sinks into the burning sand, the hardened clay.

 

From its waning freshness thy spirit found its share,

And foolish fear has told thee thy Jesus doesn’t care.

That little shall drain till nothing left

But turbid leagues of hearts bereft.

 

Greater eyes have seen the stream has dried,

The fainting spirits died.

And comes the voice of One beholding,

Guiding words, His new unfoldings.

 

Get thee hence, my will is thy supply.

Let Cherith’s blessings die,

If once supplies thy soul hath cherished

Turned to dust and perished.

Let Jesus be thy guide.

 

He shall not mock nor disappoint thee.

Trust his promise for the need.

New morning joy, the night its fears assuage,

And wipes the burning tears away.

 

L.Western

 

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