The vessel passes cross the moon, beyond my window sill,
She's masted, a square rigger, but no wind makes her sails fill.

No flag has she up on her stay, a pennant will suffice,
she's heaven bound, and laden down, but her cargo has no price.

Adventure is the larder, that crawls around her decks,
it's treasure that has more value, than the gold about some's necks.

No country has her registry, she belongs to none but God,
The Ship of Souls, no ballast holds, and nary a drunken sod.

The coarse she takes, her helmsman makes, upon a moon lit night.
The star she follows is nova bright, called the Way, the Truth, and the Light.