There was no family album,
Though there was a family tree;
No photographic likeness,
No painted portrait of the man:
Though there could be a footprint,
Preserved for posterity,
In the waters of the deep,
In the rocks of Galilee:
A footprint, brushed by the breeze,
And washed by the gentle sea.
He never wrote a diary,
And he never wrote a book,
Though others wrote the record
Of his life and spoken words,
His birth and crucifixion death:
But there must be an imprint,
Preserved for posterity,
In the rocks of Galilee
An imprint, caught by the breeze,
And touched by the moving sea.
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