Over the sea the storms are cast,
the lightning strikes, the winds unfold,
and we are heavy-laid with past,
though once in youth we journeyed bold.
The clouds are dark, the stinging rain
upon the cheek is laying scars.
The heroes of the age are slain
and high in sky we see no stars.
The thunder riots through the earth,
its shudders piercing to the bone.
Of belfry-grace we feel the dearth
and in our cities hide alone.
Yet Holy Thursday hints at more.
The traitor's kiss is not the end.
A boat is nearing to the shore
and through the clouds one ray descends
to crown with pearl the little sail;
and in the boat there shines the Grail.