The foreground tree battles
To survive against the sea,
Encroaching on the town you see
As every pilgrim rattles,
Laboring through still water
And rough road, seeking
The endangered town, reeking
Of the possibility of slaughter
Under the relentless tumult
Of the dark North Sea rage—
They seek a delivering sage
By whom they might exult
In the power of the sky,
Where heaven rises above
The waters of the sea in love
To those on earth who die.
That tree is our mortality;
The steeple in the distance
Is the sign of our resistance—
Pointing up to make us free.
