What Does that Make Me?

Peter, don't You know that rocks sink in water?
You must have forgotten when you jumped off the boat.
I have faith but I walk on land,
Hand in hand with a security rope.
I keep giving Him dirt, but He keeps giving me flowers
And hiding the water behind His back
Then I scream nonsense from my Babylonian tower
Then sneak away and try to grow my own plants.

You are my anchor, but You are my ship?
Every second this makes less and less sense.
And You are the captain, but You need no crew
And You are the sails (and the winds that blow them too!)
So what does that make me? What else is left?
Perhaps I'm a rat, creeping below the deck.