Why should I wait for evening star, —
Why should I wait to cross the bar,
And death's dissolving hand to trace
The outlines of my Pilot's face?
Must my frail barque be driven and tossed
By winds and waves, —be wrecked and lost
Upon life's strange and storm-swept sea
Because my Pilot's far from me?
No, not alone my way I trace,
Each wave gives back my Pilot's face;
To every sin and fear and ill,
To every storm he says, "Be still."
I need no longer vex my soul
With longings for that distant goal:
My Pilot sitteth at the prow,
And heaven's within, and here, and now.
