 | Wood-notes and Church-bells |  |
216
GENNESARET.
His footsteps press not now Gennesaret's strand,Or noiseless glide along its crystal floor;
He sleeps not now lulled by the plashing oar,
His weary brow with dewy breezes fanned.
No more the stormy wind at His command
Drops, and the obedient billows cease to roar;
Across the sea and through the dark no more
A glory looms with loving voice and hand.
But still thy name, Gennesaret, has a charm
To stay the tumult of a troubled breast:
When rising storms of Providence alarm,
I see thy waves traversed by footsteps blest—
I see a form Divine, an outstretcht arm,
And all the tossing billows sink to rest.
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