Classic Poem

From all the low green hills that crown
The waters of that inland sea,
The loosen'd winds rush'd madly down,
And swept the lake of Galilee.

A little boat was labouring sore,
While darker still the dark night grew;
And the sea rose from shore to shore,
By reason of the wind that blew.

'Twixt sea and sky a darken'd speck,
She drifts along the stormy deep;
No Saviour on her wave-wash'd deck
Lies pillow'd now in quiet sleep.

But who is this that walks the storm,
With even step, and calm, firm eye?
They tremble as His awful form
On the wild waters draweth nigh.

“'Tis I,” He saith, “be not afraid.”
Then fast the storm-clouds fled away;
And still as flowers in summer glade,
Around His feet the foam-wreaths lay.

O Saviour, when on life's dark lake
The waves are roaring darkly round;
When conscience bids the spirit quake,
And sin, and grief, and pain abound;

Stand Thou upon the stormy shore,
Walk Thou along the uneasy wave;
Say to me, Sinner, fear no more,
For I am drawing nigh to save.

Draw nigh, O Lord, reach forth Thine hand,
Come up into the ship with me:
So shall I soon be at the land,
The heavenly land where I would be.