Poetry

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By strength of arm, by sweat of brow
They labour at the oar;
Against the wind the creaking prow
Strains hard to reach the shore.

They glimpse a light, then sink from sight
As billows rise and fall,
Heaved to and fro by nature’s might,
Near buried by each squall.

Behold a figure walks the deep—
Some spectre of the night?
Treads dark abyss and water’s heap;
Their hearts are faint with fright.

“Be not afraid”, the Master calls,
A voice that calms their fear;
Beneath His feet the swirling squalls
Take flight and disappear.

When billows roar and darkness looms,
When hope’s obscured from view,
When all your world is gloom and doom,
Call out! He’ll rescue you.

He’s in the storm, He crests the wave;
No ghostly spectre He—
The lost who call He’s here to save
From death’s eternity.

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