O where is He that trod the sea,
O where is He that spake—
And demons from their victims flee,
The dead their slumbers break:
The palsied rise in freedom strong,
The dumb men talk and sing,
And from blind eyes, benighted long,
Bright beams of morning spring.

O where is He that trod the sea,
O where is He that spake—
And piercing words of liberty
The deaf ears open shake;
And mildest words arrest the haste
Of fever’s deadly fire,
And strong ones heal the weak who waste
Their life in sad desire.

O where is He that trod the sea,
O where is He that spake—
And dark waves, rolling heavily
A glassy smoothness take;
And lepers, whose own flesh has been
A living loathsome grave,
See with amaze that they are clean,
And cry, ’Tis He can save.

O where is He that trod the sea—
’Tis only He can save;
To thousands hungering wearily
A wondrous meal He gave;
Full soon, celestially fed,
Their rustic fare they take;
’Twas springtide when He blest the bread,
And harvest when He brake.

O where is He that trod the sea—
My soul! the Lord is here:
Let all thy fears be hushed in thee,
To leap, to look, to hear,
Be thine: thy needs He’ll satisfy:
Art thou diseased, or dumb?
Or dost thou in thine hunger cry?
I come, saith Christ, I come.