Now sings the lark in silver dawn, now calls the cuckoo bold and free,
The robin wakes in hawthorn shade, and blossoms dance on every tree.
The daffodils, like golden crowns, sway gaily in the morning light,
While crocus flames through emerald fields and bids the winter take its flight.
O Canterbury, old and wise, thy spires gleam in Easter’s glow,
Where once brave pilgrims walked thy ways and told their tales of joy and woe.
Still rings the call, as Chaucer penned, to gather near and feast as one,
Yet shall the lords and king descend to share the bread ‘til day is done?
The farms awake in merry toil, the ploughman sings, the lambs take flight,
The kitchen hums with bread anew, and hearths are warm with candlelight.
The earth is rich, the fields are fair, the seeds take root in gentle grace,
Yet do the great in gilded halls still know the soil, the land’s embrace?
The Easter bells cry loud and clear, their echoes rolling o’er the land,
They call to rich, they call to poor, they summon each to God’s own hand.
Shall kings and lords heed Christ’s command, and walk among the folk once more?
Or shall they feast behind closed doors and leave the humble at the door?
For Albion lives in hearth and home, in furrowed field, in churchyard grey,
Not in the courts where whispers weave nor where the law bids truth obey.
The land endures, the lamb still leaps, the mother sings, the child is blessed,
And Easter morn shall rise again where faithful hearts in love find rest.
So let the lark and cuckoo call, let robins nest in blossomed bowers,
Let Albion bloom in gold array, adorned with spring’s own sacred flowers.
For though the kings may stand aloof, the soil, the folk, the faith remain,
And Easter’s light shall crown the land, in hope renewed, in love unstained.
(By John Shenton)