And tossing mid that tempest's roar
Are twelve poor fishermen,
Who vainly ply the struggling oar,
The wisn'd-for coast to gain:
When Jesus walks, amid the storm,
Upon the raging tide;
And bids the tremblers fear no harm,
And bids the storm subside.
O Jesu, when my soul is toss'd
On wild temptation's wave,
When confidence and hope are lost,
Be thou at hand to save.
Amid my darkness, grief, and pain,
Come, Jesu, then to me;
As erst to those poor fishermen
On the lake of Galilee.
14. The Little Children.
Sporting through the forest wide,
Playing by the water-side,
Wand'ring o'er the heathy fells,
Down within the woodland dells,
'Mid the mighty, 'mid the mean,
Little children may be seen;
Like the flowers that spring up fair,
Bright, and countless everywhere.
In the far isles of the main,
In the desert's lone domain,
In the rugged mountain glen
