When nothing waits as blessed as the foam
That drifts upon the waves of God’s kind wrath
Eternity becomes a place to roam
To roam upon the sand dunes which it hath
Each grain remembers tides that shaped the rock
The rock they once belonged to, far ashore
The memory itself does more than mock
It tells them what was once is never more
And yet the hope of sand lies in the surf
Where sand becomes a solid, spacious wall
The ocean’s waves are salty liquid turf
That hear the wrath of God and heed the call
The call to taste the foam, the blood of God
And flesh and bone in every driftwood rod.