What a thrill, when woes assailing,
Stealing all our joys away;
Constant billows are prevailing,—
Dashing o'er us, day by day.
When the heart's with anguish riven,
Hope 's our anchor,—faith's our guide,
Which directs our souls to heaven,
Where we from the storm may hide.
Sinner, hasten to this covert,
See, the storm is pending nigh;
Saint, rejoice; for once, too, thou wert
Near the gulf where dangers lie.
Soon our bark will land, where sorrow
Never rolls along the side;
Faith and hope light's up the morrow—
Where with God we shall abide.
