Chalk and flint the Saintly path

that wends its tranquil peaceful way,

its steepled skies belie the wrath

that split the clouds on darker days.

 

The refuge of the oaken pew

the coolness of the sacred stone,

that drew the workers, poor and few

to ask they give all they had known.

 

With barley grain and nurtured lamb

on harvest thanks the faithful came,

as humble as only humble can

they laid their toil in Jesus’ name.

 

And now the marbled gentry lie

entombed and marked for all to see,

beneath the spires of Hampshire sky

as common man lies neath the tree.