The air is chill with the frost of doubt,
And men's hearts are sadly failing;
They do not hear the great Victor's shout;
But indulge in bitter wailing.
“The old gives place to the new,” they say,
“And fond hopes are daily buried;
Our cherished views are oft borne away,
As if by the tempest hurried.
“The world is stirred to its very heart,
And the Church shares the commotion;
With systems old, we are loathe to part,
To sail on an unknown ocean.
The world now heaves like the great sea's breast,
And rocks like an infant's cradle;
And looking up, by sore grief oppressed,
We find the sky draped in sable.”
I will not fear, though the earth should rock,
If God's foot be on the cradle;
But rest in peace midst the tempest's shock,
Rejoicing that God is able
To still the world with His mighty hand,
If His timid child should waken;
Or, if it rock, He will by me stand;
And my heart shall not be shaken.