That is, my all, it all belongs to You.
How futile man's thoughts, when it all comes from You,
a flicker of a wick, when fire was through.
In a singular direction the ship steers, its bow moves with a rage,
"What is before us so, I can't say;
but I trust that we will be whole when we reach home."
A kept secret in the captain's mind,
while his ship shivers down the spine.
Parts of us are broken everyday,
the stern and sail gets hit and torn all the same.
"What hold the vessel when the inner vessels worn?"
Nothing, absolutely nothing, it seems to show.
When the storm cease and the rocking stops,
when the bough breaks, this cradle will drop;
all is lost, the ship is gone.
But our lives are all but on the shore.
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