Evening left the mountain.

The disciples took the sea.

Darkness reached the water

Before the one they sought could be seen.

They pointed toward Capernaum,

Pulled hard against the night.

No lantern on the shoreline,

No familiar form in sight.

Then the wind rose like a warning,

And the quiet surface broke;

Every stroke became a struggle,

Every wave resisted hope.

Row through the dark,

Hold through the spray;

The shore is still hidden,

The Master still away.

Five and twenty furlongs,

Then thirty in the black,

Hands burned against the oars

With no easy turning back.

A shape moved on the water,

Not sinking with the foam;

It crossed the rising distance

And came toward the boat.

Fear saw what faith had never seen.

The sea carried footsteps.

The night held its breath.

A voice over the water:

"Be not afraid."

The sound was more than thunder,

More steady than the wave.

The one they thought was absent

Was nearer than the spray;

A voice over the water:

"Be not afraid."

They willingly received him,

The terror lost its claim.

The wind had not explained him;

The sea could not contain him.

No long approach to safety,

No dawn before the sand;

The ship that held the frightened men

Was immediately at land.

The one who walks the deep

Can bring the ship to land;

A voice over the water:

And fear released its hand.

The oars grew still.

The shore was there.