The old, wooden warship at the mercy of the waves,
Heaving skyward, plunging seaward, in search of watery graves?
The waves ripped off the rudder in the fierce Atlantic gale!
And the hurricane-like wind just broke off the main sail!

The strong gulf current will surge us far out to sea!
While the safe harbor behind us, with longing, we still can see!
No ability to steer, and no power to sail.
Within weeks we’ll have no food. We have no chance, but will fail.

The life boats, too light for the storm, would only hasten our doom.
We’d be fools to launch those boats—coffins, a watery tomb!
The sailors and seamen, fighting and brawling, in a hanker
Like unexorcised demons. Then someone shouts, “We have an Anchor!”

The Anchor thrown into the raging seas, drowning for all aboard.
Reaching the ocean bottom, it’s nailed to the rocky sea bed floor.
For three days and nights the hellish storm howled with demonic rage,
As if heaven’s wrath had been unleashed and justly uncaged.

At last! The storm died, and the Anchor resurrected,

Jubilant, the sailors shouted, “We’re saved! Not rejected!”

From the seaport, boats came, past the jetty and breakwater,

To tow us to the waterfront. We glided to fresh water.

Would we forget what the Anchor had done, once feet touched the pier?

In the shield of the cove, the Anchor dear. To Him, we revere.

(See Psalm 107:23-32)