Sometimes the Saviour sleeps, and it is dark;
For, oh! His eyes are this world's only light,
And when they close wild waves rush on His bark,
And toss it through the dead hours of the night.

So He slept once upon an eastern lake,
In Peter's bark, while wild waves raved at will;
A cry smote on Him, and when He did wake,
He softly whispered, and the sea grew still.

It is a mystery: but He seems to sleep
As erst he slept in Peter's waved-rocked bark;
A storm is sweeping all across the deep,
While Pius prays, like Peter, in the dark.

The sky is darkened, and the shore is far,
The tempest's strength grows fiercer every hour:
Upon the howling deep there shines no star --
Why sleeps He still? Why does He hide His power?

Fear not! a holy hand is on the helm
That guides the bark thro' all the tempest's wrath;
Quail not! the wildest waves can never whelm
The ship of faith upon its homeward path.

The Master sleeps -- His pilot guards the bark;
He soon will wake, and at His mighty will
The light will shine where all before was dark --
The wild waves still remember: 'Peace! be still.'