We sailed past dawn with a crimson sun,
And a captain's laugh on the wind was spun;
But the book-bound zealots from the steepled shore
Cried "Blasphemy!" loud, and thirsted for war.

Heave-ho, lads, let the night wind moan,
They shackled our father for love alone;
Iron on wrist and gospel on tongue,
All for the crime of cherishing his son.

They preached of light while their torches flared,
Bade the innocent kneel, said the sinners be spared;
Yet they hammered the cuffs with a hymn's refrain,
No mercy for blood, only scripture and pain.

Heave-ho, lads, let the night wind moan,
They shackled our father for love alone;
Iron on wrist and gospel on tongue,
All for the crime of cherishing his son.

In the hold he whispered through salt and tears,
"I'd brave every tempest to silence their jeers;
Though faith be their watchword and wrath be their guide,
A father's own Beacon still burns inside."

So we plot our course by the stars' dim light,
To the edge of the world where none judge the night;
When the chains are sundered and oaths undone,
We'll carry him home on the rising sun.

Heave-ho, lads, let the black tide roll,
Chains on the heart weigh heavier than coal.
Heave-ho, lads, let the night wind moan,
They shackled our father for love alone.