From every stormy wind that blows,
From every swelling tide of woes,
There is a calm, a sure retreat—
Our refuge is the Mercy-seat.
There is a place where Jesus sheds
The oil of gladness on our heads,
A place than all beside more sweet—
We seek the blood-bought Mercy-seat.
There is a spot where spirits blend,
Where friend holds fellowship with friend;
Though sundered far, by faith we meet,
Around one common Mercy-Seat.
Ah! whither could we flee for aid,
When hunted, scourged, oppressed, dismayed,—
Or how our bloody foes defeat,
Had suffering slaves no Mercy-Seat!
Oh! let these hands forget their skill,
These tongues be silent, cold, and still,
These throbbing hearts forget to beat,
If we forget the Mercy-Seat.