When the storm of the mountains on Galilee fell
And lifted its waters on high--
And the faithless disciples were bound in the spell
Of mysterious alarm--their terrors to quell
Jesus whispered, "Fear not: it is I."
The storm could not bury that word in the wave,
For 'twas taught through the tempest to fly;
It shall reach his disciples in every clime,
And his voice shall be near, in each troublous time,
Saying, "Be not afraid: it is I."
When the spirit is broken with sickness or sorrow,
And comfort is ready to die;
The darkness shall pass and, in gladness to-morrow,
The wounded complete consolation shall borrow
From his life-giving word, "It is I."
When death is at hand, and the cottage of clay
Is left with a tremulous sigh,
The gracious forerunner is smoothing the way
For its tenant to pass to unchangeable day,
Saying, "Be not afraid: it is I."
When the waters are passed, and the glories unknown
Burst forth on the wondering eye,
The compassionate "Lamb in the midst of the throne"
Shall welcome, encourage, and comfort his own,
And say, "Be not afraid: it is I."