The Gospel Miracles :: :: University of Virginia Library

The night was still ruler on Galilee's lake,
Where a shallop was toiling its passage to make,
In the wind's and the billows' despite:
For the wind it blew strong from Capernaum's coast,
And the bark in that rock-girdled hollow was tost
O'er the billows of sable and white.

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Three watches are past, and the fourth is begun:
Should seem, as they labour in vain, that the sun,
Which set to the mariners' eyes,
As they went by Bethsaida the shallop aboard,
Or ere in Capernaum's haven they moor'd,
Would o'er Gilead's mountains arise.

But what vision is yonder? A humanlike form,
By the wind unimpeded, unblench'd by the storm,
On the waves moving onward is seen:
The surges supply him a footing; the air
Waves the folds of his garment, and streams in his hair,
But disturbs not his motion serene.

As the storm-nourish'd petrels, the sons of the deep,
Float at ease on its surface, and fearlessly sleep,
So the surges that Passenger bore:
Nor more to his feet doth the water-flood yield,
Than if planted they were on some grass-mantled field,
Or the water were crystalliz'd o'er.

Right onward, with purpose determin'd and clear,
Right onward the form to the shallop draws near,
And seems as if passing it by:
Alarm'd and confounded, its aspect and mien
Thro' the veil of the twilight imperfectly seen,
“'Tis a spirit,” the mariners cry.

To their fancy some soul disembodied it seem'd,
For such o'er the earth were permitted, they deem'd,
Thin shadowlike phantoms to go:
Or some demon, they thought, was disclos'd to their sight,
Of the spirits of darkness that walk in the night,
Dispensing destruction and woe.

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For who, tho' their eyes had one Being beheld,
That o'er nature the sceptre of royalty held
On thy billows, Gennesaret, sway'd,
And had seen, as he utter'd the voice of his will,
How the winds were at peace, and the billows were still,
And the tempest his bidding obey'd;

Yet who could suppose, that a son of the earth
Could dwell in the mansion assign'd at his birth,
From fleshly impediments free;
That a body substantial, akin to mankind,
Could move as if cloth'd with the wings of the wind,
And tread on the waves of the sea?

“'Tis a spirit,” the terrified mariners cry:
“Fear not, but take courage; behold, it is I;”
Thus the figure spake peace to their heart:
And those mariners, toiling on Galilee's sea,
The disciples of Jesus, perceiv'd it was He,
Whom they left on the mountain apart;

What time in the eve, at the close of the day,
O'er the lake from the desert he sent them away
To Capernaum's port to repair;
And himself he withdrew to the solitude's height,
With God to converse in the stillness of night,
And indulge the communion of pray'r.

Apart in the mountain from evening he stay'd;
And there, thro' the watch of the midnight he pray'd,
To his Father, the Fountain of love:
Thence forth from that holy communion he past,
Where, hardly beset with the waves and the blast,
His disciples in jeopardy strove:

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For with eyes afar off, thro' the darkness of night,
More keen than the eagle's in fulness of light,
He fail'd not their trouble to scan:
And, the incense to God of his orisons paid,
He fain would the wants of humanity aid,
And bring rescue and comfort to man.

He has finish'd his course; he the vessel has gain'd;
To its inmates, with rowing and watchfulness pain'd,
He is come, ne'er a welcomer guest:
The wind, it has ceas'd; and the billows are still;
The bark, as with knowledge instinct of his will,
Speeds on to the haven of rest:

Unmov'd by the breeze, unpropell'd by the oar,
As with knowledge instinct, she has sped to the shore,
While round him the mariners press;
Acknowledge the Godhead's infallible sign,
Bow down to the presence of glory divine,
And the Son of the Mighty confess.

In those mariners, toiling on Galilee's lake,
Of mankind, as their homeward-bound voyage they make,
How true is the portraiture found!
On the waves of this troublesome world they are tost,
By contrary winds still impeded and crost,
While night spreads her curtain around.

Unassisted they labour, but labour in vain,
Their haven, the scope of their wishes to gain,
Still pent in the midst of the deep:
But He, who the waves of Gennesaret trod,
From the mount, where he dwells in communion with God,
With thoughts that ne'er slumber nor sleep,

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On them, who are fainting with labour distrest,
As toiling they pant for refreshment and rest,
Still looks with a pitiful eye;
To the labouring vessel he loves to draw near,
He enlivens their hope, he disperses their fear,
“Take courage, fear not, it is I.

“No spirit portentous, no dream of the mind,
'Tis I, who bear rule o'er the souls of mankind,
Whom the spirits invisible own:
'Tis I, in mortality's semblance array'd,
Of old who the might of the Father display'd,
His image and heir of his throne.

“'Tis I, who the arch of the firmament spread,
On the heights of the mountain-like surges I tread;
The winds in my balance I weigh;
Bars and doors have I set to the inswelling tide,
And, rebuking the sea in the height of his pride,
‘Hitherto, and no further,’ I say.

“Receive me, ye children of travail and woe:
As on through this world of temptation ye go,
Tribulation and toil is your doom.
But fear not, for One who is greater is here,
The doubtful to strengthen, the timid to cheer;
And I have the world overcome.

“Be the labouring bark to my guidance consign'd;
On me be the hope of your bosom reclin'd;
By your lip my dominion confest:
My will shall from peril protect you and save,
Bear you onward triumphant o'er wind and o'er wave,
And moor in your haven of rest.”