  How softly, how still, are we drifting away, On the wide Sea of Life as it beckons us on, Though the sunshine allure us 'tis but for a day, Then darkness comes o'er us and hopes are all gone. We are drifting away in a bark that is frail, On a sea sometimes rough and whose waves often moan, Yet when all is peaceful we think not of gale, But are drifting away in our bark all alone. So softly we float on a smooth flowing sea, That our helm and our anchors are cast to the shore, We think them a burden and wish to be free, From every encumbrance that can serve us no more. We are drifting away with our hopes and our fears, To an ocean of life unknown to us now; We see a bright vision—though veiled by our tears, It appears like refulgence to lighten the brow. Too slowly our bark seems to drift toward the prize, We in ecstasy wish it to speed faster on; But while we are wishing, a mist dims our eyes, And lo! that bright vision has vanished and gone. A gloom of thick darkness now spreads like a pall, The winds of the tempest arise in their force, And amid their wild shriekings for succor we call On Him who reigns o'er us, to mark out our course. We plead for protection from ruin and pain, Repiningly think of our anchor and helm, And could we secure those lost prizes again, No tempest could shake us, no wave could o'erwhelm. But swiftly we're drifting, we cannot tell where, The current moves onward regardless of gloom, We raise our weak voices and utter a prayer That God in His mercy is drifting us home. The silver stream by the farmhouse door Flows on and on forever, But the feet that trod its oaken floor Have crossed the mystic river, And no wind kissed by a vernal sun Can return them e'er again; Their earthly pilgrimage is done, They dwell in a new domain. |
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