Though gloom may veil our trou­bled skies,
And shades the plain o’er­spread;
Though bil­lows of the deep may rise,
Yet lift we up our head.

Jesus! if Thou be near to bless,
We shall not faint nor fail;
For when Thou giv­est qui­et­ness,
No trou­ble shall pre­vail.

Thy qui­et­ness! ’tis not the calm
That spreads in ves­per hours,
O’er earth’s green vales, the dew­y balm
Of na­ture’s clos­ing flow­ers.

’Tis not the calm the world­ling knows,
In drea­my hours of pride;
Though, soft­ly lapped in false re­pose,
His gild­ed shal­lop ride.

Thy qui­et­ness! no fount of earth
Hath ev­er proved its source;
No mor­tal skill r­evealed its birth,
Or traced its hid­den course.

O Sav­ior? Thou hast met the gale
On Thy un­shel­tered breast,
That we, the weak, the sick, the frail
Might joy in peace and rest.

Take ev­ery trea­sure but Thy grace,
And we Thy hand will bless;
Hide ev­ery com­fort but Thy face,
Thy peace, Thy qui­et­ness.

Jane Fox Crewdson
A Little While, 1864