Fugitive Poetry. 1600–1878/O God, who metest in Thine Hand

O God, Who Metest in Thine Hand.

O God, who metest in Thine handThe waters of the mighty sea,And barrest ocean with the sand,By Thy perpetual decree;

What time the floods lift up their voice,And break in anger on the shore,When deep to deep calls with the noiseOf waterspouts and billows' roar;

When they who to the sea go down,And in the waters ply their toil,Are lifted on the surge's crown,And plunged where seething eddies boil;

"Rule then, O Lord, the ocean's wrath,And bind the tempest with Thy will;Tread, as of old, the water's path,And speak Thy bidding, "Peace, be still!"

So with Thy mercies ever newThy servants set from peril free,And bring them,—Pilot wise and true,—Unto the port where they would be.