The silent stone still speaks: 'Oh hark!'
Here stood an ancient patriarch,
Some Jacob of those Stone Age times
Both King and priest in these far climes,
Who bade his subjects sky-ward raise
His mighty bulk for Heaven's praise,
This adamant or Cleaveland rock
To stand rude wind and weather's shock,
Deep root in earth, proud head steadfast,
And hundred generations last.


Then step aside with reverent awe
Passing the porch and modest door,
Leaving apart all worldly din
All breathless drink its beauty in -
Firm line of Gothic arches chaste
And monument of pious taste,
Carved font and tower of Norman base,
The good squire's splendid organ-case,
Altar around a sacred air
That tells the Godhead's presence there.


Come, troubled hearts - no longer search,
But linger at this country church,
And though through silent hours week-long
Echoes no sweet-sung Evensong,
Our souls may know this peace to be
The gift of present Deity,
And here the generous mind may share
Fulfilled four thousand years of prayer.

Barrie Williams