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From Lapwing's album 'Thin Places'. Film at The Black Isle, Inverness.
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Written by Philip Ford and Tim Kwant.

It was winter off the Black Isle
and the sea was like slate.
The sky hung like a mourning gown
on the narrow strait.
In the boat my useless fingers
fumbled hook and bait.
It was winter off the Black Isle
and the sea was like slate.

There was something in the silence
and the slow insistent tide
that shook something loose within me
I’d been working hard to hide.
Caught between the ocean
and the truth I’d long denied,
there was something in the silence
and the slow insistent tide.

I beat the oars against the current
like the water was to blame
and a feeling broke the surface
that bore an ancient name.
On the wind that whipped my face
the hellish whispered word of shame:
I beat the oars against the current
like the water was to blame.

I was breathless, bowed, surrendered
to the unrelenting sky
when the ocean broke before me
and a whale lifted high.
Outstretched, as on a cross,
he seemed to look me in the eye,
and left me breathless, bowed, surrendered
to the unrelenting sky.

In the silence of that moment
It seemed a gift of grace,
that passing years and fading mind
have had no power to displace.
My ancient wound met deepest ocean
and He held me in embrace.
In the silence of this moment
it seems a gift of grace.

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