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WHEN winds are raging o'er the upper ocean,
Far, far beneath, the noise of tempest dieth,
So to the soul that knows thy love, O Purest,
Dies in hushed stillness at its sacred door.
Far, far away, the noise of passion dieth,
And loving thoughts rise ever peacefully; And no rude storm, how fierce soe'er he flieth, Disturbs that deeper rest, O Lord, in thee.
HARRIET BEECHER STOWE, 1812
OPEN, Lord, my inward ear,
And bid my heart rejoice,
Bid my quiet spirit hear
Thy comfortable voice.
Never in the whirlwind found,
Or where earthquakes rock the place;
Still and silent is the sound,
The whisper of thy grace.
Lord, my time is in thy hand,
Thine the work, the praise is thine;
Thou art wisdom, power and love,
From the world of sin and noise
For the small and inward voice
Dare not in thy presence move; To my waiting soul reveal
The secret of thy love.
CHARLES WESLEY, 1708-1788.