Eliza Scudder (1821–1896)

LIFE of our life, and Light of all our seeing,

How shall we rest on any hope but Thee?

What time our souls, to Thee for refuge fleeing,

Long for the home where there is no more sea?

For still this sea of life, with endless wailing,

Dashes above our heads its blinding spray,

And vanquished hearts, sick with remorse and failing,

Moan like the waves at set of autumn day.

And ever round us swells the insatiate ocean

Of sin and doubt that lures us to our grave;

When its wild billows, with their mad commotion,

Would sweep us down—then only Thou canst save.

And deep and dark the fearful gloom unlighted

Of that untried and all-surrounding sea,

On whose bleak shore arriving lone, benighted,

We fall and lose ourselves at last—in Thee.

Yea! in Thy life our little lives are ended,

Into Thy depths our trembling spirits fall;

In Thee enfolded, gathered, comprehended,

As holds the sea her waves—Thou hold’st us all!