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I didn’t come from out at sea,
Nor did you from mountains flee.
I didn’t burst from under ground,
Nor drift down without a sound.

I cannot make a bow unrolled;
I cannot coat the earth when cold;
I cannot make the sunset red;
You couldn’t sing in my rocky bed.

Maybe you’ll water thirsty sand,
Or be drink for thirsty man.
Children may love your icy slide;
Maybe you’ll make up blood inside.

Please don’t press me into your mold.
God’s waters come in hots and colds.
I’ll not measure you by me.
God’s people come in ones, not threes.