When on life’s seas we venture,
At first our ship seems strong.
The sails with wind are measured.
Hoping to arrive in port ere long.
Soon the storms of life beset us,
Dashing all our hopes and dreams.
The winds blow in tremendous gusts.
Our boat soon breaks at the seams.
But, the lighthouse stands a sentinel strong,
Though battered by wind and wave.
It stands as a beacon to those that long,
For refuge from the storms that rage.
Ships that sail in peril of storm,
See her light through the foaming seas,
Threatening to send them battered and torn,
Against the shoals where the pounding wave leaps.
Her fresnel lens, hand wrought with care,
Brightens and reflects the lamp within.
It pierces the darkness of night that is there.
A light of direction and hope again.
The keeper dwells nearly alone there,
Making the tending of the lamp his care.
With gentle touch the lens he makes clean,
That neither spot nor grime weaken the beam.
In her port the ships do lie,
Anchored row by row they sleep.
Closely bound, rail to rail they’re tied.
Moored, they rest against the quay.
May the keepers continue to fuel the flame.
So the light in the darkness may burn so bright.
Loved by those led home again,
For whom the light dispelled the night.
May she stand firm in the years to come.
Her beacon, so bright, guiding the way.
A ray of hope to the wandering ones,
Who desperately for deliverance pray.
Deane Wassink
2/15/2002