The ocean hath no dan­ger
For the ones whose pray­ers are made
To the God who in a man­ger
Once a help­less babe was laid.
He was born to tri­bu­la­tion,
And to ev­ery hu­man ill,
Yet, the Lord of His cre­ation,
All the wilde­st waves can still.

Fierce the tem­pest blows around us,
Seething white the an­gry deep,
Yet will He who finds the lost ones,
Still His prec­ious trea­sure keep;
Neither wind nor wave can harm us,
Even when our hope grows dim;
Never tem­pest need alarm us,
If our peace we seek in Him.

Yea, when life it­self is wan­ing,
And the waves shall o’er us sweep,
Will the keen­ing wind’s com­plain­ing
Quiet lull us down to sleep;
For as soft as gen­tle slum­ber
Ev­en death it­self shall prove,
To the faith­ful Christ doth num­ber
’Mong the wor­thy of His love.

Oh then, Ho­ly Je­sus, hear us,
And pre­serve us free from harm;
Oh have pi­ty, Lord, and bear us
On Thine ev­er­last­ing arm.
And should storm or calm be­fall us,
Or whate’er our lot may be,
Then when all is ov­er, call us,
Call us home, O Lord, to Thee.