They that toil up­on the deep,
And, in ves­sels light and frail,
O’er the migh­ty wa­ters sweep,
With the bil­low and the gale—

Mark what won­ders God per­forms,
When He speaks, and, un­con­fined,
Rush to bat­tle all His storms,
In the cha­ri­ots of the wind.

Up to heav’n their bark is whirled,
On the mount­ain of the wave,
Down as sud­den­ly ’tis hurled
To th’ abys­ses of the grave.

To and fro they reel and roll,
As in­to­xi­cate with wine;
Terrors pa­ra­lyze their soul,
Helm they quit, and hope re­sign.

Then un­to the Lord they cry;
He in­clines a gra­cious ear,
Sends de­liv­er­ance from on high,
Rescues them from all their fear.

Calm and smooth the surg­es flow,
And where dead­ly lightn­ing ran,
God’s own re­con­cil­ing bow
Meets the ocean with a span.