From every stormy wind that blows

From every stormy wind that blows,From every swelling tide of woes,There is a calm, a sure retreat;'T is found beneath the mercy-seat.

There is a place where Jesus shedsThe oil of gladness on our heads,—A place than all besides more sweet;It is the blood-bought mercy-seat.

There is a scene where spirits blend,Where friend holds fellowship with friend;Though sundered far, by faith they meetAround one common mercy-seat.

There, there, on angel's wings we soar,And earthly cares molest no more,And heaven comes down our souls to greet,And glory crowns the mercy-seat.

Ah! whither should we flee for aid,When tempted, desolate, dismayed?Or how the hosts of sin defeat,Had suffering saints no mercy-seat?