Land us on the heavenly shore.
C. Wesley.
1296
12s.
Lord, save, or we perish.
When through the torn sail the wild tempest is streaming,
When o’er the dark wave the red lightning is gleaming,
Nor hope lends a ray, the poor seaman to cherish,
We fly to our Maker—Save, Lord, or we perish!
2 O Jesus, once rocked on the breast of the billow,