The Hymn of the Fishermen

To God give foremost praises,
Who, 'neath the rolling tides,
In ocean's secret places,
Our daily bread provides;
Who in His pasture grazes
The flat fish and the round,
And makes the herring maces
In shoaling heaps abound.

Who, in the hour of trial.
When, down the rattling steep
The tempest's wrathful vial
Is poured upon the deep,
Gives courage, calm and steady,
Through every form of fear,
And makes our fingers ready
To hand, and reef, and steer.

Who, when through drift and darkness
The reeling hooker flies.
And rocks, in ridgy starkness,
Athwart our bows arise.
Prompt to the helm's commanding.
Brings round the swerving tree.
Till, into harbour standing.
We anchor safe and free

And, great and small sufficing.
Before that equal law.
That rules the sun's uprising.
And makes the mainsail draw,
Brings round his erring creatures
To seek salvation's ways,
By laws surpassing Nature's—
To God give foremost praise.