These stones have stood two hundred years and forty more

And scan Hardcastle Crags across from Heptonstall,

Hoist high above the Hebble's ferny forest's floor

But they may fall.

 

Though Wesley preached to hundreds in this hallowed place,

This wayside chapel, gaunt-boned, gritstone octagon

Whose generations worshipped, prayed and gained God’s grace,

May soon be gone.

 

As congregations dwindle and are raked by age,

Whilst gnarled, arthritic hands now tend each grassy grave

And strive against time’s tyranny and rainstorm’s rage,

Can faith still save?

 

Can centuries of care and whispered, well-meant prayer

Maintain the mystery, uphold the crumbling span

Of heritage and heaven now mingled seamless, there?

We hope they can.

 

This ancient place where Methodists have lived and died

Might bear the brunt of faithlessness and storm-cloud’s ill

But, with the wealth of well-wishers and local pride,

May prosper still.

 

Let not this sacred place, this humble, holy spot

Succumb to selfishness and grasping greed

And fail the test of time, and crumble, rust and rot:

There is no need.

 

No dire developer must foster foolish plans

And dare to spoil this site where faithful feet have trod:

The architect who forms the future in his hands

Must just be God.

 

For He, whose love caused man to mould these moorside walls

Shall surely wield His will and summon strength, which slept,

To save and succour, so this gem of Heptonstall’s

Will be safe kept.

 

And, with strong will and sheer determination’s drive,

As, keeping hold on history, throughout our land

New flames of faith faint flicker, kindle, come alive:

These stones shall stand.