The winds may howl, the waves may rise, and shadows mock with scornful glee,
Yet on the rock where truth abides, no tide may steal my soul from me.
What need have I of fleeting praise, or whispers soft that shift like sand?
For light eternal crowns my days, and holds me fast with steady hand.
But woe to those who chase the night, who scorn the dawn and shun the way,
Who build their towers on brittle might, and smile while stone dissolves to clay.
Oh, may the veil be torn in twain, and mercy call before too late,
That they may stand, unchained from pain, and walk the path beyond the gate.
(By John Shenton)