857
L. M.
Lord, save us; we perish.
Matt. 8:25.
The billows swell, the winds are high;
Clouds overcast my wintry sky;
Out of the depths to thee I call;
My fears are great, my strength is small.
2 O Lord, the pilot’s part perform,
And guide and guard me through the storm;
Defend me from each threatening ill:
Control the waves; say, “Peace! be still.”
3 Amid the roaring of the sea,
My soul still hangs her hope on thee;
Thy constant love, thy faithful care,
Is all that saves me from despair.
4 Though tempest-tossed and half a wreck,
My Saviour through the floods I seek:
Let neither winds nor stormy main
Force back my shattered bark again.
Cowper.