Of one who, sleeping, has the power to save—
Who, when the clouds fly far, can calm the wave
And send it sobbing to the ocean bed.
Storm follows storm, the waters run more high;
Across the vain and vacant void of death
We lilt with lifeless motion to each breath,
And grope grotesquely on, yet cannot die.
Oh, for a respite from this weary place,
Or else to see but once the Master's face!