O, The Deep, Deep Love of Jesus: Carried By His Current
Before I had language for theology, I had the sound of it. As a child, my mother would sing the hymn “O the Deep, Deep Love of Jesus,” written by Samuel Trevor Francis and set to the tune Ebenezer, to me at bedtime. The chords themselves echo the movement of waves—the rise and fall, the steadiness, and the surge. When my mother sang, I knew how much she loved our Lord, and how much he loved her. She wanted me to know that love as well.
Before I understood theology, I understood this: the love of Christ was not something I had to reach for. It was something I was already being held within. We do not learn the love of Christ by mastering it, but by receiving it.
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The hymn gives language to that love—steady, surrounding, and stronger than the waters we fear. We do not find the love of Christ in the absence of chaos, but within it—meeting us in the waters we cannot control, sustaining us where we would not choose to go, and leading us home.
(The verses of “O the Deep, Deep Love of Jesus,” by Samuel Trevor Francis, are as published in Hymns of Spirit and Faith: The Hymnal of Inter-Varsity Christian Fellowship.)
Verse 1: The Waters That Carry
O the deep, deep love of Jesus,
Vast, unmeasured, boundless, free!
Rolling as a mighty ocean
In its fullness over me!
Underneath me, all around me,
Is the current of Thy love
Leading onward, leading homeward
To Thy glorious rest above!
There are seasons of life when the floodwaters seem to be rising. Sometimes the waters are expected, such as graduate school, the birth of a newborn, or a significant life transition. At other times, they come through loss, disappointment, or circumstances we never would have chosen. Despite our best efforts, we cannot stop the water. We do not have enough metaphorical towels, mops, or buckets to contain what surrounds us. Whether expected or not, the waters set a direction we did not plan and cannot control.
In Scripture, the waters often symbolize chaos and death. When Peter steps onto the sea at Christ’s command (Matthew 14:22–33), he is not simply navigating uncertainty—he is standing within what would otherwise consume him. He remains above it only as long as his attention is fixed on Christ. The moment his attention shifts, the water does not change—but his relationship to it does. What changes is not the water, but the one who stands within it.
Samuel Trevor Francis wrote this hymn during his own crisis. Standing on a bridge over the River Thames, he contemplated ending his own life. What met him there was not an immediate resolution to his circumstances, but the love of the living Christ—a love that interrupted despair and led to renewal.
Just as wounds leave marks on the body, the love of Christ leaves its own imprint—on body and soul. These are moments when this complete and perfect love of Christ is fully experienced—not something to be earned or achieved, but simply received.
The hymn does not deny the danger of the waters—it reframes them. What once threatened to engulf now surrounds, washes, and leads. The question is not whether we will be held, but what we believe is holding us. Life is not always safe, but the love of Christ is reliable.
Verse 2: Gratitude, Not Performance
O the deep, deep love of Jesus,
Spread His praise from shore to shore!
Praise His mercy, Praise His goodness;
Praise His love forevermore.
How He loveth, ever loveth,
Changeth never, nevermore!
How He watches o’er His loved ones,
Died to call them all His own;
How for them He intercedeth,
Watcheth o’er them from the throne!
This verse echoes the beginning: the familiar movement returns, and we hear the waves again. But here, the hymn shifts—from describing the nature of Christ’s love to our response to it, and to Christ’s continued response toward us.
I often witness how easily our response to the love of Christ becomes disordered. We do not simply receive the love of Christ—we try to organize our lives in a way that proves we are worthy of it. There is a place for fasting, self-denial, and remaining when the call is costly. But much of what we call devotion is an attempt to prove our love through suffering Christ never asked for.
However, love we must earn is no longer love that can sustain us. We do not need to impress Christ with our suffering. A distinctly Christian claim is that we are not trying to appease God to avoid calamity or to earn our way into heaven. And yet, we often live as if we are.
The hymn offers a different posture. The reception of Christ’s love is expressed not through performance, but through gratitude and praise. Faithfulness—the steady act of returning, no matter the sin or the cost—is itself an offering of thanksgiving.
The hymn also names how Christ responds to his people: a love that does not change, a watchfulness that does not cease, a willingness to die, and a continual intercession. We often misunderstand that watchfulness. We assume it means intervention in line with our expectations—that Christ will cooperate with our understanding of what is good or how resolution should unfold. But peace that depends on controlling the outcome is not peace. It is a form of self-protection that cannot sustain us.
Scripture names Christ as our peace—Yahweh Shalom. He meets us not in outcomes aligning with our desires, but in his presence. He provides fortitude rather than control, presence rather than immediate resolution.
The love of Christ opens our eyes to this peace and invites us into a deeper gratitude—not gratitude for outcomes, but gratitude for his presence.
Verse 3: The Blessing of Presence
O the deep, deep love of Jesus,
Love of every love the best!
‘Tis an ocean vast of blessing,
‘Tis a haven sweet of rest!
O the deep, deep love of Jesus,
‘Tis a heaven of heavens to me;
And it lifts me up to glory,
For it lifts me up to Thee.
This final movement turns to the embodied experience of Christ’s love. “Love of every love the best” is not a claim of hierarchy, but a reordering of vision. Christ’s love is not competing—it is complete. We are not striving to be the most loved among creation. We are learning to receive the love already given. In that love, we encounter what the hymn calls an “ocean vast of blessing.” This is not blessing as comfort, prosperity, or the fulfillment of our preferences. It is the blessing of presence.
We have every blessing we need in the indwelling presence of the Holy Spirit—a gift given in the waters of baptism. The waters have already been poured. The invitation now is to live as those who have been marked by them. The choice to remain—to live as those continually washed, held, and sustained—is ours.
Blessing is not material. It is relational. The Hebrew imagination ties blessing to kneeling—to recognizing our need, our dependence, and our connection to the living God. It is a covenantal attachment, sustained not by our strength, but by God’s enduring faithfulness. Blessing begins and ends in the sufficiency of that connection.
This blessing forms a new way of seeing and engaging life—not only in what is to come, but here and now. Its fruit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control—the evidence of a life marked by blessing.
This is not an escape from the world, but the beginning of heaven within it.
Conclusion: Formed Along the Way
The current of his love leads us home—and forms us along the way. Over time, we become less driven by fear, less dependent on outcome, and less compelled to prove ourselves. Not because life becomes easier, but because we are no longer trying to hold ourselves above what surrounds us.
The love of Christ does not ask us to master it. It invites us to remain within it and, in remaining—often imperfectly, often without clarity—we find that what once felt like chaos has become the very place we are held.
Professional Disclaimer: This article is offered for educational and formational purposes and does not constitute psychotherapy, counseling, or professional mental health advice. If you are experiencing emotional distress, spiritual crisis, or thoughts of self-harm, please seek support from a qualified mental health professional or a trusted, trauma-informed spiritual director.
Image by Ann Barnes from Pexels, courtesy of Canva. Digitally edited by Jacob Davis.
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