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350 The Book of Praise.
CCCXXXI.
The winds were howling o'er the deep,
Each wave a watery hill; The Saviour waken'd from His sleep ;
He spake, and all was still.
The madman in a tomb had made
His mansion of despair : Woe to the traveller who stray'd
With heedless footstep there !
The chains hung broken from his arm, Such strength can hell supply;
And fiendish hate, and fierce alarm, Flash'd from his hollow eye.
He met that glance, so thrilling sweet;
He heard those accents mild ; And, melting at Messiah's feet,
Wept like a weaned child.
Oh ! madder than the raving man !
Oh ! deafer than the sea ! How long the time since Christ began
To call in vain on me !
He call'd me when my thoughtless prime
Was early ripe to ill; I pass'd from folly on to crime ;
And yet He call'd me still.
He call'd me in the time of dread, When death was full in view ;
I trembled on my feverish bed, And rose to sin anew. |
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