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.