The Crescent cries, "Oh, woe betide! For Canterbury scorns our way!"
Yet Canterbury, meek in grace, hath taught to bless, forgive, and pray.
It whispers love in mercy’s voice, bids foes embrace, bids wrath be still,
And honours she who bears the light, whose heart and hand shape fate and will.
But lo! The words in shadow scribed, the sutras penned in fire and chain,
Speak not of love, nor mercy’s hand, but war’s decree and iron’s reign.
They bind the voice, they veil the eye, they claim the lash must shape the land,
While Canterbury’s creed yet weeps and bids its flock to rise and stand.
Then who are they to cry of chains, when chains they forge with fervent glee?
And who are they to wail of wounds, when sword and scourge are their decree?
For truth may bend, but shall not break, and love may weep, but shall endure,
Yet folly shouts while wisdom waits, steadfast, patient, strong and pure.
So let them wail, let slander rise, let cloaks of sorrow mask their guise,
For Canterbury shall not fall, nor bow to fraud, nor veil its eyes.
The truth remains, though dark the tide, though wolves may howl and tempests roar,
The heart that loves, the hand that shields, shall outlast war and stand once more.
(By John Shenton)