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.