Song with ship metaphor....

By Bob Dylan.

(Can you believe it's been forty years? What an excellent message of hope,
triumph, and change)

Oh the time will come up
When the winds will stop
And the breeze will cease to be breathin'.
Like the stillness in the wind
'Fore the hurricane begins,
The hour when the ship comes in.

Oh the seas will split
And the ship will hit
And the sands on the shoreline will be shaking.
Then the tide will sound
And the wind will pound
And the morning will be breaking.

Oh the fishes will laugh
As they swim out of the path
And the seagulls they'll be smiling.
And the rocks on the sand
Will proudly stand,
The hour that the ship comes in.

And the words that are used
For to get the ship confused
Will not be understood as they're spoken.
For the chains of the sea
Will have busted in the night
And will be buried at the bottom of the ocean.

A song will lift
As the mainsail shifts
And the boat drifts on to the shoreline.
And the sun will respect
Every face on the deck,
The hour that the ship comes in.

Then the sands will roll
Out a carpet of gold
For your weary toes to be a-touchin'.
And the ship's wise men
Will remind you once again
That the whole wide world is watchin'.

Oh the foes will rise
With the sleep still in their eyes
And they'll jerk from their beds and think they're dreamin'.
But they'll pinch themselves and squeal
And know that it's for real,
The hour when the ship comes in.

Then they'll raise their hands,
Sayin' we'll meet all your demands,
But we'll shout from the bow your days are numbered.
And like Pharaoh's tribe,
They'll be drownded in the tide,
And like Goliath, they'll be conquered.


(some of the words were changed, slightly, when the copyright was renewed in
1991)

Gould 0738 wrote:
 > By Bob Dylan.
 >
 > (Can you believe it's been forty years? What an excellent message of hope,
 > triumph, and change)
 >
 > Oh the time will come up
 > When the winds will stop
 > And the breeze will cease to be breathin'.
 > Like the stillness in the wind
 > 'Fore the hurricane begins,
 > The hour when the ship comes in.
 >
 > Oh the seas will split
 > And the ship will hit
 > And the sands on the shoreline will be shaking.
 > Then the tide will sound
 > And the wind will pound
 > And the morning will be breaking.
 >
 > Oh the fishes will laugh
 > As they swim out of the path
 > And the seagulls they'll be smiling.
 > And the rocks on the sand
 > Will proudly stand,
 > The hour that the ship comes in.
 >
 > And the words that are used
 > For to get the ship confused
 > Will not be understood as they're spoken.
 > For the chains of the sea
 > Will have busted in the night
 > And will be buried at the bottom of the ocean.
 >
 > A song will lift
 > As the mainsail shifts
 > And the boat drifts on to the shoreline.
 > And the sun will respect
 > Every face on the deck,
 > The hour that the ship comes in.
 >
 > Then the sands will roll
 > Out a carpet of gold
 > For your weary toes to be a-touchin'.
 > And the ship's wise men
 > Will remind you once again
 > That the whole wide world is watchin'.
 >
 > Oh the foes will rise
 > With the sleep still in their eyes
 > And they'll jerk from their beds and think they're dreamin'.
 > But they'll pinch themselves and squeal
 > And know that it's for real,
 > The hour when the ship comes in.
 >
 > Then they'll raise their hands,
 > Sayin' we'll meet all your demands,
 > But we'll shout from the bow your days are numbered.
 > And like Pharaoh's tribe,
 > They'll be drownded in the tide,
 > And like Goliath, they'll be conquered.
 >
 >
 > (some of the words were changed, slightly, when the copyright was renewed in
 > 1991)
 >


Thanks. I still listen to Dylan regularly. And his namesake, too:

"Bring out the tall tales now that we told by the fire as the gaslight
bubbled like a diver. Ghosts whooed like owls in the long nights when I
dared not look over my shoulder; animals lurked in the cubbyhole under
the stairs and the gas meter ticked. And I remember that we went singing
carols once, when there wasn't the shaving of a moon to light the flying
streets. At the end of a long road was a drive that led to a large
house, and we stumbled up the darkness of the drive that night, each one
of us afraid, each one holding a stone in his hand in case, and all of
us too brave to say a word. The wind through the trees made noises as of
old and unpleasant and maybe webfooted men wheezing in caves. We reached
the black bulk of the house. "What shall we give them? Hark the Herald?"
"No," Jack said, "Good King Wencelas. I'll count three." One, two three,
and we began to sing, our voices high and seemingly distant in the
snow-felted darkness round the house that was occupied by nobody we
knew. We stood close together, near the dark door. Good King Wencelas
looked out On the Feast of Stephen ... And then a small, dry voice, like
the voice of someone who has not spoken for a long time, joined our
singing: a small, dry, eggshell voice from the other side of the door: a
small dry voice through the keyhole. And when we stopped running we were
outside our house; the front room was lovely; balloons floated under the
hot-water-bottle-gulping gas; everything was good again and shone over
the town.
"Perhaps it was a ghost," Jim said. "
Perhaps it was trolls," Dan said, who was always reading.
"Let's go in and see if there's any jelly left," Jack said. And we did
that. "<!-- ~MESSAGE_AFTER~ -->