When the tem­pest ga­thers round me,
And the sea is dashed to foam,
When the light­nings flash above me,
And the thun­der shakes the dome:
’Mid the fierce and wild com­mo­tion,
While the rag­ing bil­lows toss,
Comes to me a gentle whis­per:
There is shel­ter near the cross.

When the waves are mad­ly dash­ing,
And the dark­ness veils the skies,
When in wild des­pair and ang­uish,
Burning tear­drops blind my eyes:
From afar, be­yond the ocean,
Tho’ the bil­lows wild­ly toss,
Comes to me in sweet­est ac­cents,
There is shel­ter near the cross.

As the morn­ing light ap­proach­es,
Slowly dis­ap­pears the night,
Bright across the foam­ing bil­lows,
Gleams the stead­fast bea­con light;
Soon I’ll reach the crys­tal har­bor,
Purified from sin and dross,
Where my soul shall rest for­ev­er,
In the shel­ter near the cross.