Unto the Desired Haven
By A. D. F. Randolph
WHAT matter how the winds may blow,
Or blow they east, or blow they west;
What reck I how the tides may flow,
Since ebb or flood alike is best?
No summer calm, nor winter gale,
Impedes or drives me from my way;
I steadfast toward the haven sail
That lies, perhaps, not far away. I mind the weary days of old,
When motionless I seemed to lie;
The night when fierce the billows rolled,
And changed my course, I knew not why.
I feared the calm, I feared the gale,
Foreboding danger and delay,
Forgetting I was thus to sail
To reach what seemed so far away. I measured not the loss and fret
Which through those years of doubt I bore;
I keep the memory fresh, and yet
Would hold God’s patient mercy more.
What wrecks have passed me in the gale,
What ships gone down on summer day;
While I, with furled or spreading sail,
Stood for the haven far away. What matter how the winds may blow,
Since fair or foul, alike is best;
God holds them in his hand, I know,
And I may leave to him the rest,
Assured that neither calm nor gale
Can bring me danger or delay,
As still I toward the haven sail
That lies, I know, not far away.