When the storms are raging sore,
Hearts grow faint, and hopes give o’er;
Whisp’ring softly, wanderer come!
Follow Me, I’ll guide thee home.
When our days of toil shall cease,
Waiting still for sweet release,
Nothing left but heaven and prayer,
Wond’ring if our names were there,
Wading deep the dismal flood,
Pleading nought but Jesus’ blood;