Verse 1 Morning breaks with a gull's thin prayer, salt on the sill, Old boots on the step where the light sits still. Hands like weathered rope, faces cut by wind and time, They shoulder nets and memories and the slow, low rhyme. Chorus We hold to the harbor, we hold to the home, To the hymn at the chapel and the candle's low throne. Sturdy as oaks by the quay, set in our ways, indeed — The sea gives our bread, and the bell gives our creed. Verse 2 Wives hum in the doorway, dough on the board, Children learn by the fire the stories of accord. When a gale takes a brother the town pins a flag, And Sunday we stand, we weep, and we stagger our flag. Chorus We hold to the harbor, we hold to the home, To the hymn at the chapel and the candle's low throne. Sturdy as oaks by the quay, set in our ways, indeed — The sea gives our bread, and the bell gives our creed. Bridge There’s a map on the mantle of old hands and scars, A line drawn in laughter, in rosary beads and jars. They teach the boys how to knot and how to bend with the tide, And say a soft benediction for the ones that won’t arrive. Verse 3 Evening comes stitched with smoke, the lantern swings slow, They count the day’s reckonings in the light's amber glow. Names carved in pews, initials in the mast, A promise in the oar-stroke, an oath for the last. Chorus (soft then rising) We hold to the harbor, we hold to the home, To the hymn at the chapel and the candle's low throne. Sturdy as oaks by the quay, set in our ways, indeed — The sea gives our bread, and the bell gives our creed. Coda So pass down your stories, your knives and your knots, Teach them the way of the moon, the tides, the lots. When the wind sighs its blessing and the boat cuts the sea, They carry the harbor inside — the harbormen's creed.