Bound to sail these ugly seas and hear the seagulls call. Doomed to hear the rat-tat-tat of the quarter master's call. The salt wind blows, the slave boss crows making my skin crawl. As I row this cross of mine to the place of the skull.

Hour after hour, rowing on this worn out bench. My only crime to do this time was my [bad word] sense. To deny the Son means freedom's won, but I can't deny His name. So I'm chained to this, my blood soaked fist, rowing 'til I am slain.