572—From every stormy wind
From every stormy wind that blows,
From every swelling tide of woes,
There is a calm, a sure retreat;
‘Tis found beneath the mercy seat
There is a place where Jesus sheds
The oil of gladness o n our heads
A place than all beside more sweet
It is the blood-stain’d mercy-seat
There is a spot where spirits blend,
And friend holds fellowship with friend;
Though sunder’d far, by faith they meet
Around one common mercy-seat
Ah, whither could we flee for aid,
When tempted, desolate, dismay’d?
Or how he hosts of hell defeat,
Had suffering saints no mercy-seat!
There, there on eagle wing we soar,
And time and sense seem all no more,
And heaven comes down our souls o greet,
And glory crowns the mercy-seat.