Poems (Shipton)/The Lost Cherith

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4502884Poems — The Lost CherithAnna Shipton

THE LOST CHERITH.

"He drank of the brook. And it came to pass after a while, that the brook dried up."—1 Kings xvii. 6, 7.

Thou hast but claimed Thine own; Lord, I surrender
Thy precious loan, for I would do Thy will;
Let me not doubt Thy love so true and tender,
Say to my quivering heart-strings, "Peace, be still."

Christ! Priest and King! In yon bright realm of glory
Thou bear'st a brother's sympathy for woe;
And 'mid the songs of seraphs rise before Thee
The broken prayers—the sighs I breathe below.

Thou heard'st my cry when sore athirst and weary,
And on my path in pity cast Thine eyes;
Then in the arid waste, all parched and dreary,
Thou bad'st for me a bubbling streamlet rise.

"Drink," Lord, Thou saidst: and I in mute thanksgiving
Drank of the stream that by the wayside burst,
Sweet drops of love from Thy deep fount upspringing,
That soothed my weariness and quenched my thirst.

Now at thy word dries up my pleasant Cherith,
Oh let me not in selfish grief repine;
Only Thy voice my mourning spirit heareth,
Thou hast not taken mine, Lord, but Thine.

"Nay, thine and Mine!"(thus came a whisper stealing
On my sad heart, and tenderly it fell;)"
That spring of joy I sent, my love revealing,
And its deep secret thou must ponder well.

"'Tis Mine and thine: it was my love that lent it,
Thy lonely pilgrim path to wander by;
Fear not, my child, it was thy Father sent it,
And the same love now bids the brook run dry.

"Thy song of praise that with its murmurs blended,
Rejoiced His heart who trod the earth alone,
Thy stifled wail 'mid angel hosts ascended,
And reached thy Brother on thy Father's throne.

"The cistern fails—the fountain flows for ever;
Child, to My care thy dearest ones resign;
My arms uphold thee, I will leave thee never,
And all I am, and all I have, is thine!"

Lord! Friend and Brother! safe with Thee be treasured
Memories of countless mercies past recall;
Thy loving kindness is not scant or measured,
Thou art Thyself the first best gift of all.

Christ! Thou art my fountain ever flowing,
Love passing knowledge, knowing no decline;
All, all is love in taking or bestowing,
And my sweet wayside brook is Thine and mine!