You are here30th October 2011

30th October 2011


By Ian Cardinal - Posted on 30 October 2011

 
 

The Parish Churches of

St Michael & St Wulfad, Stone, with

St Saviour Aston by Stone

 

All Saint's Day

 

Why blow'st thou not, thou wintry wind,

Now every leaf is brown and sere,

And idly droops, to thee resigned,

The fading chaplet of the year?

Yet wears the pure aerial sky

Her summer veil, half drawn on high,

Of silvery haze, and dark and still

The shadows sleep on every slanting hill.

 

How quiet shows the woodland scene!

Each flower and tree, its duty done,

Reposing in decay serene,

Like weary men when age is won,

Such calm old age as conscience pure

And self-commanding hearts ensure,

Waiting their summons to the sky,

Content to live, but not afraid to die.

 

Sure if our eyes were purged to trace

God's unseen armies hovering round,

We should behold by angels' grace

The four strong winds of Heaven fast bound,

Their downward sweep a moment stayed

On ocean cove and forest glade,

Till the last flower of autumn shed

Her funeral odours on her dying bed.

 

So in Thine awful armoury, Lord,

The lightnings of the judgment-day

Pause yet awhile, in mercy stored,

Till willing hearts wear quite away

Their earthly stains; and spotless shine

On every brow in light divine

The Cross by angel hands impressed,

The seal of glory won and pledge of promised

 

 
 

The Parish Churches of

St Michael & St Wulfad, Stone, with

St Saviour Aston by Stone

 

All Saint's Day

 

Why blow'st thou not, thou wintry wind,

Now every leaf is brown and sere,

And idly droops, to thee resigned,

The fading chaplet of the year?

Yet wears the pure aerial sky

Her summer veil, half drawn on high,

Of silvery haze, and dark and still

The shadows sleep on every slanting hill.

 

How quiet shows the woodland scene!

Each flower and tree, its duty done,

Reposing in decay serene,

Like weary men when age is won,

Such calm old age as conscience pure

And self-commanding hearts ensure,

Waiting their summons to the sky,

Content to live, but not afraid to die.

 

Sure if our eyes were purged to trace

God's unseen armies hovering round,

We should behold by angels' grace

The four strong winds of Heaven fast bound,

Their downward sweep a moment stayed

On ocean cove and forest glade,

Till the last flower of autumn shed

Her funeral odours on her dying bed.

 

So in Thine awful armoury, Lord,

The lightnings of the judgment-day

Pause yet awhile, in mercy stored,

Till willing hearts wear quite away

Their earthly stains; and spotless shine

On every brow in light divine

The Cross by angel hands impressed,

The seal of glory won and pledge of promised