There's a stir within the City, there's a throng before the gate,
For the last long cruise is over, and the shipwrecked sailors wait
While St. Peter reads their records, none too closely now and then,
As a fisherman who's trodden in the paths of sailor men.
And recalls again the story from his Galilean home
Of a ship, and one who doubted, though his Master bade him come,
As he reads anew, in wonder, for the tale is of a sort
That concerns the lost and missing, crews that never came to port.
Bringing bales of wool from Sydney, fetching fruit and frozen meat,
Crews of ships that sank defenceless with their freights of golden wheat,
Red Cross ships and Channel steamers, tramps that toiled along the coast,
Most content upon their errands where the perils lurked the most.
Was there lack of food or raiment, was there sickness, pain, or need?
Where the cry went up for succour, there the messengers would speed,
Never asking whose the summons, though the daily call were plain
As - the sound of many waters - as the voice they hear again:
For the tidings spread and echo, to the City's farthest ends,
"Inasmuch as they have done it to the least of these My friends,
Be it counted Royal Service;" and with never let or ban
Will the City gates stand open to the Merchant Sailor Man.
There's a voice
... the breeze has spoken strangers, with a stirring tale to tell,
And a thousand eager voices flung the challenge out to sea:
"Come they hither in the old way, in the only way that's free?"
And the flying Breeze called softly: "In the old way . . ."
