She lists and leans, flying in the wind,
She roars and skirts, petitions she sends.
For when the wave breaks hard,
When the storm is mighty, fierce,
Her praise ascends on high.
Carried there by tears and moans,
Too deafening in pain.
He captures them within
Her bottle…her bottle…
He holds them close and smells the nard,
His tear mingles with her own.
His more vast, His more pure,
Hers diluted by His lovely one.
His Presence comes and soothes her heart,
Not alone is she,
He, the ocean that she rides,
He, the wind with which she strives…
His the peace, His the waves,
Which is why He could sleep.