James Martineau (1805–1900)

THY way is in the deep, O Lord!

E’en there we’ll go with Thee:

We’ll meet the tempest at Thy word,

And walk upon the sea!

Poor tremblers at His rougher wind,

Why do we doubt Him so?

Who gives the storm a path, will find

The way our feet shall go.

A moment may His hand be lost,—

Drear moment of delay!—

We cry, “Lord! keep the tempest-tost,”—

And safe we’re borne away.

The Lord yields nothing to our fears,

And flies from selfish care;

But comes Himself, where’er He hears

The voice of loving prayer.

O happy soul of faith divine!

Thy victory how sure!

The love that kindles joy is thine,—

The patience to endure.

Come, Lord of peace! our griefs dispel,

And wipe our tears away:

’Tis Thine, to order all things well,

And ours to bless the sway.