Sacred Site
His newborn wings formed by ancient light
Lift him high above England green and pleasant land
Yet bittersweet the sight below
Broken monuments where stained glass no longer glows
No limit to pilgrim’s footfall
Still, they come to climb the ridge where the tower stands
Soothe worn out feet in water that ever flows
Quench their thirst from the White Spring spray
Where no salt lies within
Joseph’s blossom tree has stood the test of time
Offers shade, rest awhile
Hear the whispered songs of old
Feel the beat of ancient wings where power still remains…
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