The winds were howl­ing o’er the deep,
Each wave a wa­te­ry hill;
The Sav­ior wak­ened from His sleep,
He spake, and all was still.

The mad­man in a tomb had made
His man­sion of des­pair;
Woe to the tra­vel­er who strayed
With heed­less foot­step there!

The chains hung brok­en from his arm,
Such strength can hell sup­ply;
And fiend­ish hate, and fierce alarm
Flashed from his hol­low eye.

He met that glance so thrill­ing sweet,
He heard those ac­cents mild,
And, melt­ing at Mes­si­ah’s feet,
Wept like a wean­èd child.

Oh mad­der than the rav­ing man!
Oh deaf­er than the sea!
How long the time since Christ be­gan
To call in vain on me?

He called me when my thought­less prime
Was ear­ly ripe to ill;
I passed from fol­ly on to crime,
And yet He called me still.

He called me in the time of dread,
When death was full in view;
I trem­bled on my fe­ver­ish bed,
And rose to sin anew.

Yet could I hear Him once again,
As I have heard of old,
Methinks He should not call in vain
His wanderer to the fold.

Oh Thou, that ev­ery thought canst know,
And an­swer ev­ery pray­er;
Oh give me sick­ness, want, or woe,
But snatch me from des­pair!

My strug­gling will by grace con­trol,
Renew my brok­en vow!
What bless­èd light breaks on my soul?
Oh God! I hear Thee now.