178
poems.
Amid the gloom their troubled souls rejoice;
Their Saviour, he is near.
Their Saviour, he is near.
The billows sink to rest,
Calmly upon the bosom of the deep,—
As infant folded to its mother's breast,
Rests in its placid sleep.
Calmly upon the bosom of the deep,—
As infant folded to its mother's breast,
Rests in its placid sleep.
Jesus! whose mighty word
The raging tempest lulled to sweetest peace,
When our souls' depths by passion's breeze are stirred,
Bid the wild tumult cease.
The raging tempest lulled to sweetest peace,
When our souls' depths by passion's breeze are stirred,
Bid the wild tumult cease.
And when the hour is nigh
Which tries our faith or lures our feet from thee.
Whisper those thrilling accents, "It is I,"
And hush our agony.
Which tries our faith or lures our feet from thee.
Whisper those thrilling accents, "It is I,"
And hush our agony.
