When I was growing up, the term 'foghorn' referred to a human, usually female, whose loud, indiscreet voice would carry somewhat further than it ought. I recently walked past a real foghorn station perched on the Yorkshire coast between Whitby and Robin Hood’s Bay. It was decommissioned in 1988 and was recently on the housing market with a £750,000 price tag. Built in the 1850s, it was used to warn shipping that the rocky coastline was close by, when the neighbouring lighthouse’s efforts would have been nullified by fog. Using a vibrating column of air created a deep audible tone, and captains and pilots hopefully stayed clear. I suspect the sound to be none-too-eloquent, rarely inspiring its auditors to dance for joy nor to meditate upon its cadence. It was there to warn, not entertain. So too, gospel preaching. It is often done by the least eloquent but that matters not. To share the gospel is to warn blind navigators of approaching peril. The rocks are sharp, the seas are rough, the sandbars hazardous, but the Lord Jesus rescues all who call on Him.

O Trinity of love and pow'r,

Your children shield in danger's hour;

From rock and tempest, fire, and foe,

Protect them where-so-e'er they go;

Thus, evermore shall rise to Thee

Glad hymns of praise from land and sea.

-W. Whiting, 1860