Poems (Hale)/Christ stilling the Tempest

by Mary Whitwell Hale

CHRIST STILLING THE TEMPEST.

  Lonely and solemn night!
And in the bark the silence of despair:
The brooding gloom, the storm-wind's fearful might,
  Alike breathe terror there.

  And hearts with anguish beat,
Noble and giantlike in manly pride;
Though feeble now their mortal strength, to meet
  The stern and swelling tide.

  But see! what godlike form
Triumphant treads the rudely tossing wave,
While bending low to Him who rules the storm,
  His feet the billows lave?

  To the astonished eye
Of those who mark this dread display of power,
A spirit seems, with purpose stern and high,
  To rule the fearful hour.

  Deep horror fills the soul;
The straining eyes with wondering awe dilate;
And as the foaming surges round them roll,
  Trembling, their doom they wait.

  But list! a "still, small voice"
Of more than seraph sweetness meets the ear:
Amid the gloom their troubled souls rejoice;
  Their Saviour, he is near.

  The billows sink to rest,
Calmly upon the bosom of the deep,—
As infant folded to its mother's breast,
  Rests in its placid sleep.

  Jesus! whose mighty word
The raging tempest lulled to sweetest peace,
When our souls' depths by passion's breeze are stirred,
  Bid the wild tumult cease.

  And when the hour is nigh
Which tries our faith or lures our feet from thee.
Whisper those thrilling accents, "It is I,"
  And hush our agony.