Return of the Pastor

Thou who on the mighty deepDidst our friend, our pastor keep,On the billows' angry breastLull him like a babe to rest,While beneath their watery floorThousands sank to rise no more,Here, within this temple-shrine,Father! let the praise be thine.

Thou who from a foreign sky,Strangers' hearth and strangers' eye,Bore him to his native strand,To the green hills of our land,To the home where love and prayerWatch'd for him with ceaseless care,Here, within this temple-shrine,Father! let the praise be thine.

Sickness had an arrow direDipp'd for him in fever's fire,Spread an ambush dark with strifeRound the fountain-head of life,Thou! who from the yawning graveRaised him up to guide and save,Here, within this temple-shrine,Father! let the praise be thine.