There's a fog over all
like a funeral pall,
and there's nothing so tall it can pierce through the veil;
and the air's dead and still
with the frost and the chill,
and no wind that can fill the great bulk of the sail;
And the stars are all hid
and the compass a-skid,
for the fog doth forbid all recourse past its shroud;
and so dead on the sea
with the desperatest plea
every eye looks to see the great tower 'bove the cloud.
O! the lamp in the night!
gold and shining at height!
warming, dazzlingly bright as it pierces the shroud!
Guiding ships all athwart
straight and clear into port,
an unfailing support is the tower 'bove the cloud!
It is seen from afar
shining bright like a star,
and wherever we are, we with hope are endow'd;
for no more will we drift
from our safety a-rift;
from the depths we're alift to the tower 'bove the cloud!
When in darkness we grope,
the high tower's our hope;
by its light we can cope when afar off at sea;
we can hope in its rays
through the end of our days,
for we know that our ways are now guided and free.
For the fog over all
is a funeral pall,
but we mourn not the fall for which it is the shroud;
for a love that is free
gives an iron guarantee
that forever we'll see that bright tower 'bove the cloud!
