The open sea,
This ship does sail,
Where masses spring this cup of tea,
And all whose flesh from their bones does wail,
Find rest in this bill of only a sail.
With hands on deck,
And eyes to the rescue,
Its heart awaits this impending wreck,
And all who basque in its waiting queue,
Is saved by the gushing waters to the neck.
Where cabins are laid,
With beds that never fade,
Its stern shall not depart this final blow,
And all whose shoot is like the arrow,
Shall find the peace that beckons this row.
Its port of call,
Though opened to all,
Is never secured in this surrounding wall,
And all who sees its mast so tall,
Knows to be heard from the depth of the call.
In its countless log,
It denies this fog,
That seems to hinder a yearning mate,
And all its anchor does hold,
Finds comfort in this assuring date,
For they like you have found the gold.
One paragraph Sunday Reflections 