CHRIST STILLING THE TEMPEST

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Pacific Seventh-day Adventist Publishing Association · Oakland, California · Jun 26, 1879

FromSigns of the Times, Vol. 5, No. 25.

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CHRIST STILLING THE TEMPEST.

THE storm was loud, the night was dark, The winds and waves tossed the fragile bark Where the Saviour peacefully sleeping lay, Wearied and worn with the toils of the day. Louder and fiercer the wild winds blow, Higher and higher the mad waves flow, Till the weary disciples cry out in fear, Master, carest thou not that we perish here?
Quickly aroused by that cry of distress, And then, as now, ever ready to bless, He rebuked their doubts and calmed their fears, And quickly dried their flowing tears. For he stood in the ship with outstretched hand, Like one who governs both sea and land By his mighty power and sovereign will, And he utters the mandate, "Peace, be still."
Obeying at once his high behest, The foaming billows sink to rest; And the raging winds forbear to blow, For they their Master's mandate know. The wondering disciples stood amazed, And at their Saviour mutely gazed; "What manner of man is this," they say, "That even the winds and seas obey?"
Thus when temptation's winds arise, And clouds of sin hide the light from our eyes, We toil in vain our souls to save, And are ready to sink beneath the wave; Our Saviour is near, and he sleeps not now, And if at his cross we humbly bow, A heavenly joy will our bosoms thrill, As he bids those temptations, "Peace, be still!"
Even so in our lives, when sorrows roll Like dashing waves, to sink the soul: When we lay our loved ones in the tomb, And it seems that nothing can pierce the gloom; If we call on him he will surely hear, For his blessed presence is ever near, And a trusting calm our hearts will fill, As he gently whispers, "Peace, be still."
And when life's toils and cares are o'er, Ere I sleep in death to wake no more Till Michael's trump, with piercing sound, Shall rouse the slumberers 'neath the ground; O, Thou who alone art mighty to save And redeem my soul from the power of the grave; May thy gentle voice my weary heart still, By softly whispering, "Peace, be still." —H. M. Gilman, in Herald of Gospel Liberty.