Upon the swirling tides of time,
For want of reason and of rhyme,
A soul is taken by the flood,
Its vessel made of flesh and blood.
He sails with youthful innocence,
On seas of inexperience,
To be the master of his fate,
His fledgling spirit cannot wait.
And so the tides begin to teem,
As torrents soon replace the stream.
While innocence receives its knocks,
His youth is dashed upon the rocks.
Though flesh is torn and sinews strained,
Wisdom is learned and prudence gained.
And as the tides outrun the past,
His innocence is gone at last.
He rides the current to the sea,
His thoughts filled with uncertainty.
Though new adventures, there, await,
He's not the master of his fate.
Amid the songs of cherubim,
He sees the twilight skies grow dim.
Then bathed in holy light, sublime;
He's lifted from the tides of time.