51. Driving to port.

1 THOUGH hard the winds are blowing
And loud the billows roar;
Full swiftly we are going,
To our dear native shore.

2 The billows breaking o'er us,
The storms that round us swell,
Are aiding to restore us,

To all we loved so well.

3 So sorrow often presses, Life's mariner along; Afflictions and distresses,

Are gales and billows strong.

4 The sharper and severer

The storms of life we meet,
The sooner and the nearer
Is Heaven's eternal seat.

5 Come then, afflictions dreary, Sharp sickness pierce my breast;

You only bear the weary

More quickly home to rest.

52. The Gospel Pool.

2 Here streams of virtue flow,
To heal a sin-sick soul;

To wash the filthy white as snow,
And make the wounded whole.

3 The dumb break forth in praise, The blind their sight receive; The cripple run in wisdom's ways, The dead revive and live.

4 Not bound to case or time,
These waters always move;
Sinners, in every age and clime,
Their vital influence prove.

5 Yet numbers near them lie,
Who meet with no relief;

With life in view they pine and die,
In hopeless unbelief.

6 'Tis strange they will not bathe,
And yet frequent the pool;
But none can have a saving faith,
While love of sin bears rule.

7 Their conscience sin has seal'd,
And stupified their thought;
For were they willing to be heal'd,
The cure would soon be wrought.

8 Dear Savior, interpose,

Their stubborn will constrain ;
Or else to them the waters flow,
And grace is preach'd in vain.