Hail, sacred Ark of ever sure reliance,
Ne'er known to meet perdition on a shoal;
Thou, buoyant, bid'st life's dashing sea defiance,
And turn'st aside its mountains as they roll!

Along the coast of Man, in triumph sailing,
A thousand barks intend one port to make;
When, lo! Opinion's wildering fogs prevailing,
They separate, and various courses take.

Near Folly's quicksands, in a dread position,
Without a rudder, on Destruction's wave;
The schooner Chance is hurried to perdition,
And Doubt her pilot to Confusion's grave.

But the staunch Ark of Faith, with steady motion,
Hope at mast head, Experience at her stern,
Mid storms, o'er billows, grandly rides the ocean,
Certain to make the port of her concern.

For He who regulates the vast of Nature,
Whose potent word the winds and waves obey,
Will by his promise, as the Mediator,
Bring all his Chosen Ones to immortal day.