'T was night the bright stars sparkled high above the dying ship.
She lay listing on the reef, trembling in its grip.
Forty people met their doom under the pale moon light.
We drifted with the wreckage all through the long dark night.
A puff of wind, just one more gust,
And we would have cleared this rocky coast.
Are we in the hands of God, the hands of Chance,
What have you?

Waiting for the help of God, waiting for a chance,
Does Man determine his own fate, is there a leader of this dance?
A mastermind who looks below, deciding when the rain will pour.
To deal us now a final blow, and leave us die on this lee shore!

Forty of the finest men, the skipper and the bo’s'un,
Left the island in a boat but we, we were not chosen.
Pelsaert standing in the bow, a seagull on his shoulder.
God knows if he was right to go, he looked a century older!
They took eighty water casks, we did not go, we were not asked,
Searching for the help of God, the help of Chance, what have you?

Waiting for the help of God, waiting for a chance,
Does Man determine his own fate, is there a leader of this dance?
A mastermind who looks below, deciding when the rain will pour.
To deal us now a final blow, and leave us die on this lee shore!

Two hundred eighty frightened souls in these endless seas.
Without a drop of water, in sickness and disease.
With swollen, blackened, dried out tongues
Sucking a piece of wood, we fight for every drop of dew,
More precious now than drops of blood!
We dare not even waste a tear, the terror of a wounded deer,
Is this the will of God, or is it Chance that we die here?

The preacher man spoke of God’s blessing
The soldier of his lot
But suddenly it started raining
Chance maybe, or was it God