There is a mooring boat, simple and slight
Set soon upon a glistening seabed for a distant shore;
In its rough-hewn bow my head is kept;
My feet bare upon the stalwart stern.
It weighs with no oarsman, it bends to no winds,
It cowers to no whip of rain, nor blush of snow.
But onward rushes like the birds.

By some unearthly compass it steps through the sea
Knowing where, and gently docks at sandy beaches hence:
Where sings the manumission of the leaping earth,
Bounds of being jutting up in leaves and foals and fire.
Into that weeping joy the heart lurches aft
And falls upon the pillows of the sand,
Eyes enrapt in dust and tide.

And would that were the feet so nimble there
That besting joys beyond a song or Savior rise—
But in that free and happy land, well are clapped with
Fearest purity and fondest peace; nothing for to
Walk, and see, and run as once they knew.
‘Til at the best, in all the chaos of eternity, there
Lingers some Man’s Son at wait in robes and sandals.

What can a man cry out bested by salvation then?
Though still I would wail, I swear: “Let me step into the fold, my Lord;
Let me crawl into the ways of heaven, pray You—”
And laughing as though a child at play with sand,
Lifts these dirty feet, a pair of brittle legs, and body whole with scars—
“Come, I’ve got you,” says He with a smile as wry as the sun.

While I have fallen to a weeping wretch in the forever chimes;
There is not a good that I can do to bring myself;
There is no greater good to do than weeping then:
For I am caught up in the arms of God.