  Thot is the skiff that bears the soul, To Heaven’s celestial shore, With our God as the stanch pilot, To guide the light craft o’er. ’Tis thot which makes the poor man rich, That makes the rich man poor, Lord! may each treasury of thot, Be thy Word firm and sure. No Scylla lifts six hungry heads, No Sirens’ song is heard, No Charybdis engulfs the soul, With thot driven by God’s Word. Let Triton blow his shameful blast, Unfurl your sails—nor care! With Christ to man your vessel frail, Foul weather will prove fair. Tho Neptune seethe, Christ soothes the waves, While low-hung cloudlets pout, Some peevish, purse their beating brows, Soon all are put to rout. Thot speeds along the bounding brine, While mingled mists of care, Take their flight on the rifting clouds, When Soul breathes freer air. The skiff of thot, a soul its crew, Now welcomes her haven fair; She anchors in God’s Elysium, Our Heaven, of laurels rare. |
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