FOURTH SUNDAY AFTER EPIPHANY.

No. I.

H. H. M.

LORD! Thou didst arise and say
To the troubled waters "peace,"
And the tempest died away.

Down they sank, the foamy seas;
And a calm and heaving sleep
Spread o'er all the glassy deep,
All the azure lake serene
Like another Heaven was seen!

Lord! Thy gracious word repeat
To the billows of the proud!
Quell the tyrant's martial heat,

Quell the fierce and changing crowd!
Then the earth shall find repose

From its restless strife and woes;
And an imaged Heaven appear
On our world of darkness here!

FOURTH SUNDAY AFTER EPIPHANY.

No. II.

FROM PSALM LXXXIX.

WITH reverence let the just appear
And bow before the Lord;

His high commands attentive hear,
And tremble at His word.

Thy words, oh God! the wind control,
And rule the boisterous deep :
Thou mak'st the sleeping billows roll,
The rolling billows sleep.

Justice and judgement are Thy throne,
Yet wondrous is Thy grace:
And truth and mercy, join'd in one,
Go forth before Thy face!

FOURTH SUNDAY AFTER EPIPHANY.

No. III.

FROM PSALM XCIII.

WITH glory clad, with might array'd,
The Lord that o'er all nature reigns,
The world's foundation strongly laid,
And the vast fabric still sustains.

The swelling floods in tumult rise,
Aloud the angry tempests roar,
They lift their surges to the skies,

And foam and lash the sounding shore.

The Lord, the mighty God from high
Controls the wild and wintry seas;
He gives the word, their murmurs die,
And down they sink in silent peace!

Oh Saviour! make Thy servants pure, And calm our souls that proudly swell; For all Thy laws are fix'd and sure,

And

peace becomes Thy temple well!

FOURTH SUNDAY AFTER EPIPHANY.

No. IV.

R. H.

WHEN through the torn sail the wild tempest is streaming,
When o'er the dark wave the red lightening is gleaming,
Nor hope lends a ray the poor seamen to cherish,
We fly to our Maker-" Help, Lord! or we perish!"

Oh Jesus! once toss'd on the breast of the billow,
Aroused by the shriek of despair from Thy pillow,
Now, seated in glory, the mariner cherish,

Who cries in his danger-" Help, Lord! or we perish!"

And oh, when the whirlwind of passion is raging, When hell in our heart his wild warfare is waging, Arise in Thy strength Thy redeemed to cherish, Rebuke the destroyer-" Help, Lord! or we perish!"

FOURTH SUNDAY AFTER EPIPHANY.

No. V.

R. H.

THE winds were howling o'er the deep,

Each wave a watʼry hill,

The Saviour waken'd from His sleep,

He spake and all was still.

The madman in a tomb had made
His mansion of despair;

Woe to the traveller who strayed
With heedless footstep there!

The chains hung broken from his arm,
Such strength can hell supply,
And fiendish hate, and fierce alarm
Flash'd from his hollow eye.

He met that glance so thrilling sweet,
He heard those accents mild,
And, melting at Messiah's feet,
Wept like a weaned child.

Oh madder than the raving man!
Oh deafer than the sea!

How long the time since Christ began,
To call in vain on me?