GOD'S FOOT ON THE CRADLE

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.