THE winds were howling o'er the deep, Each wave a watery hill, The Saviour...

THE winds were howling o'er the deep, Each wave a watery hill, The Saviour wakened from his sleep, He spake, and all was still.

The madman in a tomb had made His mansion of despair; Woe to the traveller who strayed With heedless footsteps there!

He met that glance so thrilling sweet. He heard those accents mild, And, melting at Messiah's feet, Wept like a weaned child.

O madder than the raving man! O deafer than the sea! How long the time since Christ began To call in vain on me?

He called me when my thoughtless prime Was early ripe to ill; I passed from folly on to crime, And yet he called me still.

He called me in the time of dread When death was full in view, I trembled on my feverish bed, And rose to sin anew.

Yet could I hear him once again, As I have heard of old, Methinks he should not call in vain His wanderer to the fold.

O thou that every thought canst know, And answer every prayer; O give me sickness, want, or woe, But snatch me from despair!

My struggling will by grace control, Renew my broken vow! That blessed light breaks on my soul? O God! I hear thee now.