In the Name of the Father

In the Name of the Father
— a hymn wrought of quiet timber,
the cobblestones underfoot remember
how the Church of England creaks
in pews that whisper “Paterfilio”
(though we say “Father” in a gentler vein).

At the flick of the brass‑clad pulpit light,
a silver ploughman‑coat flickares with the dawn’s chill,
the eldest “Father” sways, a seasoned priest,
his rosary beads counting like the river’s rush.

The scent of incense curls, a faint smudge of prayers,
and the choir sings in four‑part harmony—
“Glory! All glory to the Father,
All credit to his holy Son.”

It is a lesson on the uneven love of a man,
a Jenkins‑fired wicker between blood and fear,
a respite for the young, a shaft of hope
in the quiet, a place that stands above the mire.

Such pages are not written by those who want to hoard,
but by those who, in the brittle fog, step forward
to throw a stone into the dark of winter,
and watch it travel in a line of faith, unbroken.

So that the little hands raise, holding the knot:
we all remember the old Father’s name,
the one that breathes the stories of British soul,
in cradle and church, with an honest heart.