Each stroke from God’s own hand a token bears;
O, let me heed the kind paternal blow,
Afflicted heart! thy Father lays thee low.
There is a rock, raised high above the storms
Which lash life’s ocean; not the thousand forms
Or horrid shapes of woe can e’er ascend,
Where Jesus lives his fav’rites to defend.
Low at its base the raging billows dash,
And clouds grow dark, and angry lightning flash,
But firm the rock of ages ever stands,