Dark was the night, the foam­ing deep
Raged mad­ly round; He rose from sleep—
The Man, God’s Son, the tem­pest’s Lord,
He spoke! Obe­di­ent, trem­bling, awed,
Low sank the proud wave’s crest­ed head,
For the af­fright­ed storm-fiend fled.
Low sank the proud wave’s crest­ed head,
For the af­fright­ed storm-fiend fled.

We sail on life’s tem­pes­tu­ous sea!
O Thou, whose voice wild Ga­li­lee
Heard ’bove the storm blast speak the word,
Which oft since then the saints have heard!
May we, when tem­pests baf­fle skill,
Hear the com­mand­ing, Peace, be still,
May we, when tem­pests baf­fle skill,
Hear the com­mand­ing, Peace, be still.

Speak! and the sky of sor­row’s night,
Is ra­di­ant with ce­les­ti­al light;
Speak, and the wild­est waves ob­ey,
And gent­ly bear us on our way;
Speak! and temp­ta­tion’s fierc­est blast
Is harm­less, all its fu­ry past.
Speak! and temp­ta­tion’s fierc­est blast
Is harm­less, all its fu­ry past.

Speak! and the ve­ry winds of death
Shall waft a more than wel­come breath—
To fair­est realms than heart con­ceives,
Or thread of hap­pi­est fan­cy weaves;
To worlds where ev­il nev­er trod,
Bright as the dia­dem of God,
To worlds where ev­il never trod,
Bright as the dia­dem of God.