2 Poor tremblers at His rougher wind,
Why do we doubt Him so?
Who gives the storms a path will find
The way our feet shall go.
3 A moment may His hand seem lost,
Drear moment of delay;—
We cry, “Lord, help the tempest-tost!”
And safe we’re borne away.
4 O happy soul, of faith divine!
Thy victory how sure!