A Sunday Night At Sea

How sadly hath this Sabbath day, O God, been spent by me, Cribbed close beneath a narrow deck, Washed by the frequent sea, An adverse wind careering o'er me From those eastern clouds, And complaining as its shivering wings Sweep through my roaring shrouds! This humble deck, so near to which My rocking couch is spread, That I strike it if incautiously I lift my throbbing head, Hath all day told, and tells me still, Of falling sleet and rain, While I have lain alone beneath, In weariness and pain. Nay, not "alone"; for, though no voice Of wife or children dear, Or friend, or fellow worshipper, Hath fallen upon my ear, Hast thou not, even here, O God, Thy face and favor shown? Then, how have I been desolate, Or how am I alone? And, while the wind hath roared above, And tossed the raging sea, Have not my silent orisons, My God, gone up to thee? To thee, who sittest on the flood, And ridest on the storm, And biddest every wind that blows Some work of love perform. And though the winds have tossed, and though The waves have washed, my deck, It hath not by their weight been sunk, Or driven ashore a wreck; For, though thou hast not hushed the blast, Nor bid its fury cease, Thou 'st brought me up and sheltered me Behind the hills of Greece. It was not, my Preserver, thus The lines were made to fall, In this same season, these same seas, Unto thy servant Paul, Who, by this same Euroclydon, Was driven till he, at last, On Malta's rock, from which I've come, A shivering wreck, was cast. Then let me murmur not, that I This livelong day have lain In weakness and in weariness, In loneliness and pain; But rather, when I think of Paul, Thy mercy let me bless, That, though I've served thee less than he, I've also suffered less. Yet wilt thou not forgive me, Lord, If, on this holy day, I think of those I love, and think How far they are away; And if that house of thine, where I Have served thee many a year, That pleasant house, should claim from me The tribute of a tear? Within its walls, even now, though Night O'er me hath spread her wing, I see my friends, my family, My flock, all worshipping; For, between the pastor and his flock, The foamy crests are curled, That whiten o'er the waters of A quarter of the world. And if he lifts to thee his eyes, With tears and darkness dim, And asks if, in their prayers, his friends, His flock remember him, Let not the thought of self, that thus Intrudes upon their prayers, Be set down as a sin, O God, In thy sight or in theirs! That holy house, where I have stood, And where these hands of mine, So many years, have ministered The monthly bread and wine, That "do show forth" the Saviour's love And bring to mind the debt Of those he hath redeemed from sin, --Can I that house forget? Forget those little children, too, "Whose angels do behold Their Father's face," whose names, on earth, Are with thy church enrolled, And on whose brows, unfurrowed yet By time, or care, or sin, The water I have thrown, that speaks Of purity within? Forget the dead!--forget the dead! What witness do they bear Of my influence on their spirits, that Are now beyond my care? That I have spoken faithfully? Or that I, through fear, was dumb "Of righteousness, and temperance, And of the world to come"? The dead! What witness, O my soul, In their abodes of bliss, Or from their seats of woe, must they Have borne of me, in this? And they who 're yet alive, what will, What ought to be, the amount Of their report, when, in their turn, They go to give account? Can I forget the mourning ones, Who 've brought their load of grief, And, at thine altar laid it down, And found in prayer relief? Forget the needy, who their wants Have there before thee spread? Or the liberal hand that there hath given The poor their daily bread? Forget the young, who, having laid Their parents in the dust, Came up, in One who cannot die, To learn to place their trust? Forget the hoary-headed ones, Who 've bent their feeble knees, With me so long in prayer?--O God, Can I forget all these? And, when I do remember all Whose worship I have led, How can I but indulge the hope, When taken from their head, That they whose kindness in my heart Will ever be enshrined, When they have bowed before the Lord, Have borne me in their mind? And how am I remembered, then?-- As a watchman, loving sleep? As a shepherd, who hath sought his ease, And cared not for the sheep? Or as one who, aware that his time was short, That his day would soon be o'er, With more of zeal than of wisdom wrought, Till he could work no more? Shall I, then, "work no more"?--or wilt Thou bring me back at length, To serve thee in thy courts again, With renovated strength? And, when the people of my care Within those courts I meet, Will the same faces welcome me, The same kind voices greet? No: there are eyes that rolled in light, When I launched upon the wave, And that, before I can return, Will have closed in the sleep of the grave: And are there not those which fell on me then, With a warm and a friendly ray, And which, when they see me again, will turn With an icy glare away? O Father, by thy chastening hand, That now is laid on me, In weakness and in wandering Upon this wintry sea; In absence from thy holy house, To which I loved to go, And from my home, my happy home, And them who make it so,-- By all this discipline of thine,-- All which, I know, is just,-- Shall I be made a wiser man, And worthier of my trust? An answer, O my guardian God, Thy wisdom will prepare; And what thy wisdom shall appoint, It will be mine to bear. At sea, "lying to," behind Cape Matapan, 14 February, 1836