Lyrics

Wilfred St. Vincent was a logger by trade,
His were the trees from which Chicago was remade.
Burnham had the vision, but he supplies the bones,
And the muscle and the blood with every skidder load.

From the docks of Escanaba where the timber haulers sail,
Out into the hunting grounds of the cold November gales.
So he hammered in a symbol on every pine he hewed,
The circle and the cross for a prayer to see them through.

Death's Door, Death's Door.

The captains name was Barber, Mariah was his ship,
The company's requesting that he make a final trip.
The glass was holding steady as he cleared the Sand Point light,
With a belly full of timber on that cold November ninth.

The seas were running heavy with a passing Northwest gale,
And he hope to make it through the straits if the weather didn't fail.
But Davey Jones was calling as the rigging sang a tune,
With the circle and the cross and no prayer to see them through.

Death's Door, Death's Door.

Full moon sailing in a cloud torn sky,
Mary Ann is barefoot on the sand by the bay.
Thinking of her family in the cottage fast asleep,
She walks this beach when love runs deep.

Driftwood glows smooth and white,
With a symbol traced in the soft moon light.
Her grandfather's symbol hammered true,
The circle and the cross for a prayer to reach right through.

Death's Door, Death's Door.