The sea gave up the dead which were in it.@Revelation 20:13
illustration
The Burial at Sea
Frank Brangwyn (1867-1956)

Horatius Bonar, Hymns of Faith and Hope, second series (London: James Nisbet, 1861), pages 100-03.

Montreal (Harrison) John F. W. Harrison, in the Church Hymnal (Rouses Point, New York: John W. Lovell, 1877), number 240 (🔊 pdf nwc).

portrait
Horatius Bonar (1808-1889)

Deep down beneath th’unresting surge
There is a peaceful tomb;
Storm raves above, calm reigns below;
Safe, safe from ocean’s wreck and woe;
Safe from its tide’s unceasing flow,
The weary find a home.

Calm shelter from time’s vexing winds;
Sure anchorage at last!
The blinding sea-drift blinds not here;
No breaker’s boom the sleepers fear,
No angry typhoon hovers near
Their latest storm is past.

Done now with peril and with toil,
They sleep the blessed sleep.
The last wild hurricane is o’er;
All silent now life’s thunder-roar,
All quiet now the wreck-strewn shore;
’Tis we, not they, who weep.

Who dies in Christ the Lord dies well,
Though on the lonely main;
As soft the pillow of the deep,
As tranquil the uncurtained sleep
As on the couch where fond ones weep;
And they shall rise again.

Not safer on the sea of glass
Before the throne of God!
As sacred is that ocean cave,
Where weeds instead of myrtles wave;
As near to God that unknown grave,
As the dear churchyard’s sod.

O’er the loved clay God sets His watch,
The angels guard it well,
Till summoned by the trumpet loud,
Like star emerging from the cloud,
Or blossom from its sheltering shroud,
It leaves its ocean cell.

The sea shall give them back, though death
The well known form destroy;
Nor rock, nor sand, nor foam can chain,
Nor mortal prison house retain;
Each atom shall awake again,
And rise with song and joy.

The cold sea’s coldest, hardest depths
Shall hear the trump of God;
Death’s reign on sea and land is o’er,
God’s treasured dust He must restore;
God’s buried gems He holds no more,
Beneath or wave or clod.

When the cold pillow covered them,
No solemn prayer was said;
Yet not the less their crown shall be
In the great morn of victory,
When, from their mortal fetters free,
They leave their peaceful bed.

What though to speak the words of love
No dear ones then should come.
Without a name upon their bier,
A brother’s or a sister’s tear,
Their Heaven will be as bright and near
As from their boyhood’s home.

Star of the promised morning, rise!
Star of the throbbing wave,
Ascend! and o’er the sable brine
With resurrection splendor shine;
Burst through the clouds with beams divine,
Mighty to shine and save.

O Morning Star! O risen Lord!
Destroyer of the tomb!
Star of the living and the dead,
Lift up at length Thy long veiled head,
O’er land and sea Thy glories shed;
Light of the morning, come!

Into each tomb Thy radiance pour,
Let life, not death, prevail,
Make haste, great Conqueror, make haste!
Call up the dead of ages past,
Gather Thy precious gems at last,
From ocean’s deepest vale.

Speak, mighty Life, and wake the dead!
Like statue from the stone,
Like music from long broken strings,
Like gushings from deserted springs,
Like dew upon the dawn’s soft wings,
Rouse each belovèd one!