The flags fly high for distant feasts, for idols strange and far,
Each crescent praised, each foreign rite now lit by Parliament's star.
Yet Canterbury lies in hush, its bells not heard above,
For England’s faith is not the faith these leaders speak or love.
They speak in tongues of policy, of carbon, race, and trade,
But not the words of Christ the King, nor truths our fathers prayed.
They genuflect to every creed that claims the migrant’s song,
And hush their hearts to England’s psalms, as though our rites were wrong.
No Palm was waved, no child was blessed beneath the Norman spire,
For bishops kneel to global themes, not Pentecostal fire.
A king may wear a golden crown, but bow to Caesar's creed,
If those who rule forget the cross that taught this land to bleed.
Are they converted? None can say, though silence speaks in time.
Or are they merely hollow men who climb and climb and climb?
Pagans masked in suits of grey who rule by data scroll,
Yet shun the holy calendar that marks the English soul.
For if they will not name the Christ, nor bless the church’s day,
Then vote them out and raise the rood to show a truer way.
But hark! The buds break through the thorn, the bells may peal again,
For Truth is not by states decreed, nor bound by laws of men.
Though shepherds fail and steeples lean, the flock shall not despair,
For every Palm still holds its leaf, and sings Hosanna’s prayer.
So lift your voice and bless this land, let glad hosannas ring,
For Christ rode in, and rides anew, the everlasting King.
(By John Shenton)