With tattered sail, as ships which driven are

On whatsoever course the winds may list,

Which every peaceful waterway have missed,

And drift on open seas with shattered spar

And gaping seam, which toss and sway and nod,

Remote from sight of land and hope of aid,

So is the canvassed, crude conveyance made

In which Man journeys to the port of God.

No pillow in his vessel rests the head

Of one who, sleeping, has the power to save—

Who, when the clouds fly far, can calm the wave

And send it sobbing to the ocean bed.

Storm follows storm, the waters run more high;

Across the vain and vacant void of death

We lilt with lifeless motion to each breath,

And grope grotesquely on, yet cannot die.

Oh, for a respite from this weary place,

Or else to see but once the Master's face!