Black the night, black the road.
Gray the sea and gray the shoal.
Downward drifts a pale white glow
From silver moon above the wave.

And on a hill beyond the shoal
Sits a shack of wood and stone.
There lives a mariner aged, now old.
The sea his solace gave.

Trees miles tall, trees like bone,
Trees that bind the ancient shoal.
Where souls now drift as in ocean cold,
Men lost beneath the waves.

Then all depart to heaven’s heart,
The Lord their soul to save.
To waste at sea ‘til Death imparts
This is a mariner’s fate.