Vain is the consecrated shrine
If Jesus be not there;
Nor, need we outward bread and wine,
His sacred feast to share.
Oh! who amid the Gospel Light,
Pour’d round us from above
Shall dare to make a shadowy rite,
Our passport to His Love?
To all believing on His word,
He gives the living bread;
These at the table of their Lord
From His own hand are fed.
Christ is himself that Bread Divine,
The manna sent from Heaven;
His precious blood the strengthening wine,
To fainting thousands given.
Spirit and life the words He spake,
Enjoining us to feed
On Him, that so we may partake
Of meat and drink indeed.
Lord! daily grant this rich repast,
Our sustenance to be;
Till sanctified we find at last,
Eternal life with Thee.
Sleep, my boy! while round us wide,
Madly heaves the troubled tide;
Dream not of these dangers dark,
Ready to o’erwhelm our bark.
Hush! oh, hush! ye angry deeps!
See how soft my baby sleeps.
Ha, how waves contending dash!
Slumber on, nor heed the crash.
Sleep, my boy, till ocean’s breast,
Like thine own is rocked to rest;
Till the glorious beams of day
Laugh once more around our way.
Sleep, good night, thou know’st not why,
Weeps thy mother’s wakeful eye;
Oh, how sweet his peace must be,
Who in storms can rest like thee.