To the ha­ven of Thy breast,
O Son of Man, I fly;
Be my re­fuge and my rest,
For oh! the storm is high;
Save me from the fu­ri­ous blast,
A co­vert from the tem­pest be,
Hide me, Je­su, till o’er­past
The storm of sin I see.

Welcome as the wa­ter-spring
To a dry, bar­ren place,
O des­cend on me, and bring
Thy sweet re­fresh­ing grace;
O’er a parched and wea­ry land
As a great rock ex­tends its shade,
Hide me, Sav­ior, with Thy hand,
And screen my nak­ed head.

In the time of my dis­tress
Thou hast my suc­cor been,
In my ut­ter help­less­ness
Restraining me from sin;
O how swift­ly didst Thou move
To save me in the try­ing hour!
Still pro­tect me with Thy love,
And shield me with Thy pow­er.

First, and last in me per­form
The work Thou hast be­gun;
Be my shel­ter from the storm,
My sha­dow from the sun;
Sprinkle still the mer­cy-seat,
And bring Thy Fa­ther’s an­ger down;
Screen me, Je­su, from the heat,
And ter­ror of His frown.

Let Thy mer­it as a cloud
Still in­ter­pose between,
Plead th’atone­ment of Thy blood
Till I am cleansed from sin;
Weary, parched with thirst and faint
Till Thou th’abid­ing Spi­rit breathe,
Every mo­ment, Lord, I want
The mer­it of Thy death.

Never shall I want it less
Till Thou the gift hast giv­en,
Filled me with Thy right­eous­ness,
And sealed the heir of Hea­ven;
I shall hang up­on my God,
Till I Thy per­fect glo­ry see,
Till the sprink­ling of Thy blood
Shall speak me up to Thee.