Fugitive Poetry. 1600–1878/My Father's at the Helm

My Father's at the Helm.

The curling waves, with awful roar, A little boat assailed,And pallid fear's distracting power O'er all on board prevailed.

Save one, the captain's darling child, Who steadfast viewed the storm;And, cheerful, with composure smiled At danger's threatening form.

"And sport'st thou thus," a seaman cried, While terrors overwhelm?""Why should I fear?" the boy replied; "My father's at the helm."

So when our worldly all is reft, Our earthly helper gone,We still have one true anchor left— God helps, and He alone.

He to our prayers will bend an ear, He gives our pangs relief,He turns to smiles each trembling tear, To joy each torturing grief.

Then turn to Him, 'mid sorrows wild, When want and woes o'erwhelm,Remembering, like the fearless child, Our Father's at the helm.