Life is a storm and we are at sea.
Sometimes we are the boat,
We cannot control the storm.
It beats us, relentlessly, unending;
Even the stars hide from those kind of storms.
Hope seems so distant,
Like a calm that will never come.
More often I feel like the water though.
A crash lingering at every crest-
Spraying, sloshing, internal control is elusive.
The enemy names me Tempest,
Telling me I have a temper and I bring the storm.
But Ho! What is this?
Someone, whether sleeping in the boat or walking on the water,
He calms my storms.
The storms around me and the storms inside me.
Either the waves stop or the boat sails safely into port.
You see this man, Jesus, he calls me Harbor.
I am not a Tempest, I am His Harbor,
Because of He who lives in me.
Chelsea:
"A port of ships, a harbor"