His sheltering wing is o’er thee spread;
He ne’er forgets His human pangs—
The stricken soul, the tortured limb—
Nor gives a moment’s needless pain
To those who love and trust in Him!
What dost thou fear, what dost thou dread?
The rushing wind—the billow’s roar?
The gale, though rude, by love is sent
To speed thy course to Heaven’s shore.
More fatal were a death-like calm;