From depths where sorrow hems us in

1.
From depths where sorrow hems us in,
we cry, O Christ, to You;
Your love, more strong than storm‑tossed wings
of gannet cutting through.

2.
Though tongues of angels fill the air,
and mountains shift with flame,
without love’s breath we stand laid bare—
like ravens without aim.

3.
On Slemish slopes Your mercy falls
like rain on heathered stone;
the curlew lifts her lonely calls,
yet none are left alone.

4.
Along Portrush’s restless strand
Your peace moves with the tide;
the seals that dive and rise again
find refuge at Your side.

5.
“Let not your hearts be troubled now”—
the ash‑leaf stirs in grace;
the skylark sings above the brow
of every windswept place.

6.
For You, the Way our feet may trust,
the Truth our spirits know,
the otter rising from the rust
shows where Your currents flow.

7.
Love never fails, though storms may rise
around Mid‑Antrim’s fields;
the hares that run beneath the skies
know Love that never yields.

8.
So teach our hearts to walk Your way
with kindness, hope, and peace;
till dawn, where dolphins greet the day,
brings all our fears release.

Hymn information

First line: From depths where sorrow hems us in
Text: Br Michael CSB
Metre: CM
Tune: St Columba

Reflection

Grief is rarely an abstract concept; it is an environment. It has its own topography, its own sensory weight, and its own unpredictable tides. When we find ourselves plunged into the De Profundis—the heavy, suffocating “depths” of loss modeled in Psalm 130—the mind often struggles to find a foothold in lofty theological statements. Instead, the spirit looks for anchors in the concrete, the local, and the immediate.

This hymn was born out of that exact search for grounding following the death of my father. It is an attempt to map the timeless promises of scripture onto the physical contours of the Northern Irish landscape, allowing the ancient rhythm of night-moving-into-dawn to offer a quiet, sensory pathway to hope.

The Sanctuary of the Specific

For the contemplative or neurodivergent mind, comfort is often found not in sweeping generalities, but in the intense clarity of the specific. When the internal world feels loud or fractured by sorrow, the steady, unblinking witness of creation offers a strange kind of sanctuary.

Throughout these stanzas, the wild edges of Antrim become a living liturgy:

The Gannet and the Curlew: The sharp, focused movement of a gannet cutting through a storm or the lonely call of a curlew over Slemish slopes mirror our own inner isolation. Yet, the poem reminds us that they exist within a wider, held reality.

The Portrush Tide: Along the restless strand, the seals diving and rising become a physical picture of the nervous system trying to find its equilibrium—reminding us that there is a refuge in the rhythm of rising again.

Anchoring the Sacred in the Ordinary

By weaving the foundational comfort of John 14 (“Let not your hearts be troubled”) and the enduring promise of 1 Corinthians 13 (“Love never fails”) into the ash-leaves, the running hares, and the Mid-Antrim fields, the sacred is brought down to earth. The otter rising from the rust of the water becomes a quiet, local icon of grace—a signpost showing exactly where the currents of the Divine are moving, even when we feel entirely spent.

Ultimately, the arc of the hymn follows the patient, watchful trajectory of Psalm 130. It doesn’t bypass the darkness or rush the dawn. It sits honestly in the windswept places, waiting for the morning with the steady assurance that the Love which holds the dolphin and the skylark is the very same Love that will eventually bring all our fears release.

Copyright

© Michael McFarland Campbell. 2026. 
Permission granted for local church or parish use with attribution. Not for commercial reproduction.

Written recently and shared here as part of the NeuroDivine hymn collection.