In lonely grandeur, mid old ocean’s wastes,
There stands a rock, against whose iron sides
The wrathful waves continuously beat.
Around its towering head the shrill winds roar,
Adown its sides the salt spray dripping falls
Amid the sea-drift cast up at its feet.
Unnumbered ages have the billows broke
In foam against the echoing bulwark strong,
And shrieking whirlwinds round it swept in wrath,
Yet still, scarred, worn, it stands as firm today
As when God’s voice first called it from the depths,
And flings back from its base the leaping wave,
As though it laughed at its vain strength in scorn.
So, like a rock uplifted from the sea,
Shall that man be whose trust is in the Lord;
Whose faith is strongest and whose love most firm
When passions rise like surges to o’erwhelm,
And when tempations fierce his soul assail,
Like that mid-ocean rock he, too, shall stand.
Unharmed, unshaken by each rude assault;
The tempter’s wiles, his vengeance, and his smiles,
Alike shall fret themselves beneath his feet.
His firm foundations are down deep in God,
His peace, his strength, and his reward above.