A Common Prayer

 

What then of Cranmer, what to say

This man who helped an age to pray,

Who set  to word the ageless song,

And paid the price for being wrong.

 

Proud Oxford burned a holy sage,

As balm for Bloody Mary’s rage,

If hands offend ‘not his I’d swear’.

And if they did I cannot care!

 

Oh yes, he served his King too well,

Some truth in tales the papists tell

Yet for this grace I’ll all forgive,

His foundling faulted way to live.

 

I drank his book of common prayer,

It rested on my bedside chair,

It led my sleepless eyes to rest,

Of all my books it was the best.

 

The mysteries inside my head,

Confounded by the words I read,

A prelate’s peace pursuing calm,

That kept my erring soul from harm.

 

I wish today I saw it clear,

With faith to banish every fear,

But truth to tell I scan the page,

With full regret and adult rage.

 

The bell is sounding, hear it ring,

It sounds the pride to which I cling,

My chalice crushed upon the floor,

While lepers clamour at my door.

 

Between the bindings nothing now,

No hope, no love, no when, no how,

When Gods salvation just brings pain,

I will not speak those prayers again.

 

If God forgives, then take my heart,

Divide my soul, set love apart,

The schisms deep and hands offend,

And there are breaks that never mend.

 

In earthly love I’ll take my rest,

Full sanctified and truly blessed,

Earths greatest pleasure ocean deep,

My mighty sword, My castle keep.

 

But still the book is candlelight,

A lantern for the darkest night,

Four centuries it stood the test,

Of all my books it was the best.