THE way is hot, the way is long,
’Tis weary hours to even-song,
And we must travel though we tire;
But all the time beside the road
Trickle the small, clear rills of God,
At hand for our desire.
Quick mercies, small amenities,
Brief moments of repose and ease,—
We stoop, and drink, and so fare on,
Unpausing, but re-nerved in strength
From hour to hour, until at length
Night falleth, and the day is done.
The birds sip of the wayside rill,
And raise their heads in praises, still
Upborne upon their flashing wings;
So drinking thus along the way,
Our little meed of thanks we pay
To Him who fills the water-springs,
And deals with equal tenderness
The larger mercies and the less:
“O Lord, of good the fountain free,
Close by our hard day’s journeying
Be thou the all-sufficing spring,
And hourly let us drink of thee.”