LXXXII.
Thy form, thou Son of God!—a wrathful deep,
With foam, and cloud, and tempest round Thee spread,
And such a weight of night!—a night, when sleep
From the fierce rocking of the billows fled.
A bark show’d dim beyond Thee, with its mast
Bow’d, and its rent sail shivering to the blast;
But, like a spirit in thy gliding tread,
Thou, as o’er glass, didst walk that stormy sea
Through rushing winds, which left a silent path for Thee.