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tr., John Brownlie

8,6,8,6 D



Lord, soothe my anxious, troubled soul,

And bid its doubting cease,

Speak to the crested waves that roll,

To sink in quiet peace;

And bring me to a place of rest,

A haven calm and still,

Where every soul by sin distressed,

May dwell secure from ill.


Ah! Thou wert once, my Blessed Lord,

By surging waters pressed,

But Thou didst speak th’ almighty word

And laidst them still at rest;

And ’gainst Thy soul the wrath of sin

Its tempest fury cast,

But Thou didst stand, serene within,

Till all the storm had passed.


O Christ, the hiding-place of those

Who face the blinding blast,

And battle with a myriad woes

That sweep in fury past;

Be Thou my comfort and defence,

While storm fiends wildly cry,—

My star of hope when night is dense,

And dangers round me lie.

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