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