Dark hung the clouds o'er Galilee;
A lonely bark was on the sea,
Where wild the billows played;
Deep terror filled each trembling frame,
When suddenly the accents came,
“‘ T is I — be not afraid!”
A martyr stood with tranquil air;
He saw the stake, the fetters there,
The fagots all arrayed;
But, though such darkness reigned around,
He caught the sweet, the cheering sound,
“‘ T is I — be not afraid!”
A weary pilgrim roamed alone;
For him was breathed no friendly tone,
No friendly hand brought aid;
But through the gloom so dark and drear,
A gentle whisper reached his ear,
“‘ T is I — be not afraid!”
A mother knelt in anguish wild
Beside a loved, a dying child,
And tears in torrents strayed;
A soothing voice breathed to her heart,
In tones that bade despair depart,
“‘ T is I — be not afraid!”
Upon a bed of pain and death
A Christian faintly drew his breath,
With spirit half dismayed;
He heard a soft, a tender voice —
It caused that spirit to rejoice —
“‘ T is I — be not afraid!”
A penitent with streaming eye
Raised unto heaven his doleful cry,
And fervently he prayed;
A brilliant light around him shone,
And with it came a heavenly tone,
“‘ T is I-be not afraid!”
And when the trump from yonder skies
Shall bid the silent dead arise;
When suns and stars shall fade;
When thunders roar, and mountains fall;
The saints shall hear above them all,
“‘ T is I-be not afraid!”