O that the race of men would raise
Their voices to their heavenly King,
And with the sacrifice of praise
The glories of Jehovah sing!
Ye navigators of the sea,
Your course on ocean's tides who keep,
And there Jehovah's wonders see,
His wonders in the briny deep!
He speaks; conflicting whirlwinds fly;
The waves in swelling torrents flow;
They mount, aspire to heaven on high;
They sink, as if to hell below:
Their souls with terror melt away;
They stagger as if drunk with wine
Their skill is vain,-to thee they pray;
0, save them, Energy divine!
He stays the storm; the waves subside;
Their hearts with rapture are inspired;
Soft breezes waft them o'er the tide, in gladness, to their port desired:

John Quincy Adams

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/version-of-the-one-hundred-seventh-psalm/