Hymns For Dedication Viii Poem by John Pierpont

Tossed on the billows of the main,
And doomed from zone to zone to roam,
The seaman toiled for others' gain,
But, for himself, he had no home.


No father's door was open flung
For him, just 'rescued from the wreck';
No sister clasped her arms and hung,
In speechless joy, around his neck;


But he was cast upon a world
More dangerous than the ocean's roar,
When o'er his bark the surges curled,
And drove it on a leeward shore.


He had no home;-and so had He
Who, as his bark began to fill,
Said to the Lake of Galilee,
When lashed by tempests, 'Peace! Be still!'


Of winds and dashing waves the sport,
By perils, while at sea, beset,
The sailor found himself, in port,
Exposed to greater perils yet.


False brethren were his perils there,
And perils by his countrymen,
And perils by the sirens fair
That lured him to the robber's den.


But now a brother stands, in stead,
With open arms, to take him in,
And spreads a banquet and a bed
That may be tasted without sin.


Yes!-the poor seaman hath a home!
We thank thee, God, for what we see;
Let him no more 'mid perils roam,
But come, at once, to it and thee.