O my cope is lifted
from below the knee;
walking in procession
at old Glastonb'ry.

Spread like wings of angels
by my acolytes,
both of whom are looking
quite pre-Raphaelite.

Down the street we wander,
singing as we go;
Brotherhood of clergy,
thuribles a-glow.

Cross and candles swaying,
chant and holy psalm,
no-one sees my servers
walking arm in arm.

Poetry in motion,
at this Cath'lic Feast;
though a few protestors,
think we are The Beast!

To the Abbey ruins
goes the sacred throng,
for the closing service,
bless-ed Evensong.

Cassock, scarf and surplice,
decorated cope,
priests and congregation,
praying for the Pope.

Then when all is over,
standing at the bar,
we agree that this year
was the best by far!

Mother Church has nurtured
rite and liturgy,
reaching its perfection
at this Glastonb'ry!

©Pharisaios Publications 2001

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