246. From Every Stormy Wind That Blows

by H. Stowell
From every stormy wind that blows,
From every swelling tide of woes,
There is a calm, a sweet retreat;
'Tis found before the mercy-seat.
There is a place where mercy sheds
The oil of gladness on our heads;
A place than all beside more sweet—
It is the heavenly mercy-seat.
There is a spot where souls unite,
And saint meets saint in heavenly light;
Though sundered far, by faith they meet
Before the common mercy-seat.
Ah! whither could we flee for aid
When tempted, desolate, dismayed?
Or how the hosts of hell defeat,
Had suffering saints no mercy-seat?
Thither by faith we upward soar,
And time and sense seem all no more,
For freely God our souls can greet
Where glory crowns the mercy-seat.