Son Rise on the Gulf
By
Thomas B. Wallace
The gold rimmed fingers of God,
As substantial as the storms,
That rage beneath their guarded palms,
Lift His Son from that Indigo Gulf,
And set Him to shine on all creation.
Light and warmth to the storm swept sea,
Healing breath to the sick at heart,
Sight to blind beggars of soul,
Groping through the black abyss,
Searching for the light.
Lifted up on that rough hewn mast,
He strikes down the father-of-lies,
And leaves His Spirit with me,
To tell the tale, spread the word.
So now, upon this restless sea,
The storms that throw their rains and winds,
lifted waves washing over me,
are more than my baptismal stream,
They are His grasp that holds me up,
That carries me across the waves,
That lights me on the Rock of His foundation,
There to lay fast the stones of my life,
One lifting another until it rings,
And sings
With the choirs of angels,
A cathedral of flesh,
Built upon His Son Rise on the Gulf.
