692		LM
	FROM every stormy wind that blows,    From every swelling tide of woes, There is a calm, a sure retreat, ’Tis found beneath the mercy-seat.
2	There is a place where Jesus sheds The oil of gladness on our heads, A place than all besides more sweet; It is the blood-stained mercy-seat.
3	There is a spot where spirits blend, Where friend holds fellowship with friend; Though sundered far, by faith they meet Around one common mercy-seat.
4	O whither could we go for aid When tempted, desolate, dismayed: Or how the hosts of hell defeat Had suffering saints no mercy-seat?
5	There, there on eagle-wing we soar, And time and sense seem all no more: And Heaven comes down our souls to greet, And glory crowns the mercy-seat.
6	O let my hands forget their skill, My tongue be silent, cold, and still, This bounding heart forget to beat, If I forget the mercy-seat!
	Hugh Stowell, 1799-1865