From every stormy wind that blows,
From every swelling tide of woes,
There is a calm, a safe retreat;
'Tis found beneath the mercy-seat.
There
is a place where Jesus sheds
The oil of gladness on our heads,
A place than all beside more sweet;
It is the blood-stained mercy-seat.
Ah!
whither could we flee for aid
When tempted, desolate, dismayed?
Or how the hosts of hell defeat
Had suffering saints no mercy-seat?
There,
there on eagle wing we soar,
And time and sense seem all no more,
And heaven comes down our souls to greet,
And glory crowns the mercy-seat.
O
let my hands forget their skill,
My tongue be silent, cold and still,
This bounding heart forget to beat,
It I forget the mercy-seat.
Hugh
Stowell - 1799 -1865
