Midnight upon Gennesaret; the restless waves,
Like jewels on the troubled bosom of the sea,
Flash forth in rays of silvery light, or hide within
Her dark and flowing tresses. Soft, as in a dream,
The night-winds sigh and whisper o’er the little ship,
While from the far-off, shadowy hills of Galilee
Their cool breath gently fans the weary twelve, as rests
A loving hand upon a fevered, aching brow.
Deserted lies the quiet, moon-lit shore, but all
The air is heavy with the perfume of the grass,
Crushed into fragrance by the waiting multitude
Whom Jesus fed. The Giver of the bread of life
Has gone apart upon the mountain-side to pray,
Alone.
The night is dark, the Master is not come;
The sea arises, and on every side the waves
Gigantic, black, and topped with lurid crests of foam,
Leap madly through the gloom. Labors the little ship,
Hurled to and fro and beaten back upon her course.
With slow and stubborn stroke the rowers wearily
Are straining at the heavy oars. But hark! above
The sullen roar of wind and sea, a well-loved voice,
Vibrant and sweet with chords of heavenly music, speaks,
And they were sore afraid; but He saith unto them,
“Be of good cheer, ’tis I, be not afraid.”
And lo,
The tempest ceased! and when they had received their Lord,
The ship had come unto the haven they desired.