857
L. M.
Lord, save us; we perish.
Matt. 8:25.
The billows swell, the winds are high;
Clouds overcast my wintry sky;
Out of the depths to thee I call;
My fears are great, my strength is small.
2 O Lord, the pilot’s part perform,
And guide and guard me through the storm;
Defend me from each threatening ill: