When flowed the brook of Cherith,
God sent Elijah there,
And fed him by its waters,
Though all the land was bare.
While flowed the brook of Cherith,
Elijah rested there—
No drought could touch his fountains,
Nor blight his soul with care.
When failed the brook of Cherith,
Beside its channel bare,
What thought Jehovah’s prophet?
Did faith become despair?
But God had long provided,
New sources of supply,
The morsel that should waste not,
The cruse that should not dry.
When fails some brook of Cherith,
That long for us availed,
Do we recall His promise,
And think that too has failed?
Nay, He has other rivers
Whose waters will not dry,
His love is ever meeting
New need with new supply.
When dries our brook of Cherith,
And leaves its channel bare,
The cruse, long since made ready,
Is waiting—He knows where.