I.

ARK! We have heard of heroes     harrowers of old

Mighty, mail-clad,     men of renown

Whom in heathen days     heaven favoured

With gifts of gold     and green pasturelands.

For glory they grappled     greedy for honour

Killing and killed     for kingship in songs.

For lasting life     they longed and fretted

Desperate for deeds     deemed tale-worthy

Fit for the fireside     in following days.

For in death came darkness     the doom of all men

Beyond their barrows     no bliss was found

Lonely souls    sundered from flesh

Cold and corruption     cracked their bones.

In mind’s memory     a mending they sought

To lengthen their lives     in lingering words.

But man’s remembrance     is mortal itself

And poet’s tales     proffer no comfort

To souls that suffer     in the shadows of hell.

When Christ came     and conquered all

A new way opened     narrow and straight

To lasting life     it leads through peril

The fulness of glory     given at last.

Not in poet’s praises     but by power divine

In the mind of the Maker     is merit found

Hope everlasting     and home without end.

Of these chosen champions     we chant new songs

Reflecting the fire     of the Father’s love

Their deeds we declare     bright dooms we sing—

Heaven’s heroes     we hail in gladness

Telling the truth     of their triumphs and woes.

Among these hallows     of heaven’s throng

One born of Britain     Boniface by name

Rose to greatness     in God’s deeming

Mighty with miracles     made by his Lord

Sought salvation     for the Saxon race

The folk from whose fields     our fathers sprang.

‘Winfrith’ he was     when he was young

A son of Dumnonia     in Devon born

The child of an atheling     who chided him well

When monkish life beckoned     the boy from his home.

For wealth and worldliness     Winfrith was meant—

His father was faithless     and over-fond of gold—

But sickness struck     his sire from on high

And at last, he relented     and repented his pride.

His blessing he breathed     on the boy’s calling

And Winfrith went forth     to worship and strive.

To Benet’s Rule     he bound his life

The way to wisdom     from Wulfhard he learned

—the Abbot of Examchester,     an excellent man

A good guide in grammar     and in God’s holy law.

Then to Nursling went Winfrith     and new things learned

Rhetoric and rhyming     and records of old.

The Psalter he studied     and sang with a will

Learning the lore     of the Lord Almighty

Building his word-hoard     worthy and strong.

They made him master     of the monastery school

And raised him to priesthood     in proper time.

Far went the fame     of his faith and wit

But he was not eager     for earthly praise

To preach among pagans     he prayed ceaselessly

This oath he uttered     with ardent will:

‘The hearts of our sires     we sons must turn.’

II.

CROSS the swan’s way    the Saxons dwelt

A pagan people     proud and fierce

The fires of the Faith     in Friesland were dim

A cold country     cruel and dark

Ruled by the Ruiner     and wrecker of souls

Winfrith waited     to win it for Christ

And at last his longing     the Lord satisfied.

A missionary monk     by malady was stricken

At home for healing     he had to remain

So in his place     our priest was sent

Winfrith went     and was well-prepared.

With two comrades     he crossed the sea

To frozen Friesland     they fared by ship.

There Radbod reigned     rough and grim

Haughtiest of heathens     in that hard land.

War he waged     and won many victories

His Frankish foes     feared his name.

Where churches were built     he burned them down

He scattered the sheep     of the Shepherd Divine

Christ’s few kinfolk     cowered in fear.

To Radbod’s court    the clerics hastened

To strike at the heart     of heathendom there.

By mercy of the Measurer     they met with luck:

An audience they gained     with that giver of rings

Radbod, ravager,     red-handed lord

Boldly they stood     in his sunless hall

Heedless of hearthguards     who hung about—

Mead-muddled, menacing,     mocking their guests—

Winfrith spoke     sprang open his word-hoard

The Gospel he gave     with golden tongue

The way to Heaven     he hastened to tell.

Radbod hearkened     and his heart was stirred

His interest kindled     by kindly words.

With poet’s power     the priest held forth

Telling of the Kingdom     of Christ on earth—

His coming, the Cross,     the Conquering of death

The Harrowing of Hell,     and Heaven’s glory—

Until the tale     was told and done.

To Winfrith’s wonder     the wicked king

Moved by the majesty     of the Maker of all

Questioned them curiously     in quiet words

And besought the blessing     of baptism’s flood.

The priest rejoiced     and made ready at once

A day was chosen     for the deed of grace.

But when by the river     Radbod stood

He pondered a problem     and paused to inquire:

‘What fate for my fathers?     This faith they knew not.

Have they homes in Heaven     with your holy saints?’

Winfrith’s comrade     Wulfram by name

Answered hastily     in heedless words:

‘They lie in hell’     was his lone reply

Lacking in tenderness     and tact as well.

Wrath rose     in Radbod’s breast

His heart was hardened     to heaven’s charms.

Away from the waters     he warily stepped

Scowling, stone-faced,     surly once more.

‘I’d fainer follow     my fathers to hell

Than brood in your heaven     with beggars and fools.’

Radbod turned     and trudged away

The pride of his fathers     filling his soul

Blinding his eyes     to blessedness and truth

Against God     the gates he shut—

The clerks he cast     from his court at once

Of heaven or hell     he would hear no more.

After this failure     in Friesland’s heart

Winfrith went     from the war-torn realm

Back to Britain     in a boat he sailed

To watch and wait     for the will of God.

III.

BBOT Winbert     Winfrith’s lord

An aged man     at the end of life

Went home to the Father     in the following year.

The monks mourned him     and Mass they said

Piously praying     for repose of his soul.

Winfrith they asked     that abbot’s place

To take in turn     and tend their flock

As faithful shepherd     and fatherly guide.

The pious priest     pondered in his heart

For the Lord’s leading     he listened with care

Silent he sat     in his cell waiting

Until his course     was clear at last.

For the Saxons’ souls     he still was burdened

His mission of mercy     he must complete.

He wrote to the bishop     and begged his leave

To go again preaching     in the pagan land.

Bishop Daniel,     devout and wise

Read this request     and reckoned it good

Another he appointed     as abbot to rule—

Winfrith was free     to follow his path.

To Rome he went     where reigned the Pope

Godly Gregory     greatest of bishops

Who kindly received him     as a kindred soul.

Long they tarried     and talked at whiles

Discoursing on divinity     and divers things

Of God and his Gospel     the glory of the saints

Of the Rood and redemption     and the rites of the Church.

The Pope posed     many probing questions

Seeking to uncover     the soul of his friend—

His morals and motives,     his mind’s turnings,

His heart’s affection     for holy things—

Soon he was satisfied     and sent him forth

To hasten to Heathenesse     as herald of Christ.

‘Boniface’ he named him     and blessing he gave

Power he granted     to preach the Word

Across the Rhine     in the realm of eld.

IV.

EWLY charged     champion of Heaven

Boniface ventured     bravely forth

Crossing the Alps     he came to Bavaria

Stopping to stay     with saintly folk

Who dwelt in the dales     of the Danube’s course.

There he heard     happy tidings—

In the fens of Friesland     far to the north

Ruthless Radbod     reigned no more

That old ring-giver     had run his course

And now in his barrow     his body lay.

The Saxon lands     were safe at last

Peace covered     that countryside.

Up the Rhine     roved Boniface

Pursuing his purpose     with patience and joy.

Mass he sang     in many a village

Where Christ’s kin     kept the Faith

And preached powerfully     to pagan folk

Until he returned     to Radbod’s old land.

There he was met     by a mighty worker

Bishop Willibrord     boldest of shepherds

Who’d served the Saxons     in uncertain times.

Fifty years     in Friesland he’d laboured

Resisting Radbod     and risking death

A covert cleric     in a cruel land.

Free at last     the Faith to practise

Willibrord worked     with wondrous might

Teaching the Saxons     the saving law

With God’s grace     to guide his hand.

The new ruler     Radbod’s son

Went to the waters     to wash his sins.

Wulfram confirmed him     in Christ’s name

Radbod’s error     made right by his son.

Day dawned     in the dismal country

And Boniface bent     to his blessed task.

He thanked the Maker     and for three years

Worked with Willibrord     winning souls.

To the Pope reports     of his progress came

Well pleased he was     with the priest’s deeds

And so a great bishopric     to Boniface he gave—

He consecrated him     Christ’s own steward

Archbishop of all     that lay east of the Rhine

In Mainz he would make     his metropolitan see

And feed the flock     of the Faithful with care.

Carl the Hammer     king of the Franks

Pledged to protect     both prelate and realm—

A good friend     to godly men

And scourge of Saxons     who served the Dark.

Bishop Boniface     emboldened by grace

Laboured and throve     for thirty years

Preaching the power     and promises of God

Whose saving sacraments     he served and loved.

His people prospered     as they put on Christ

Discarding old devils     and all damnable things

Their land glistened     with a gladsome light

As God’s glory     was given to all.

Monuments they made     to the might of heaven

Shining spires     like stars in the land.

Songs they sent     to the skies above

Declaring the praises     of the Divine King.

Treasures they crafted     with cunning skill

Chalices and chasubles     and chaplets of gold

To show the splendour of the Saviour of men.

In the High Heavens     He was enthroned

And justice reigned     in the German lands.

V.

UT dark powers     were present still

Ancient enemies     of Almighty God.

In groves they grew     with grim purpose

To tempt and taint     and torture men

To mangle and maim them     and madden their souls

Dragging them down     to be devils’ playthings

Food for fiends     in the fens of hell.

Deep in Thuringia     the Thunderer still dwelt

That demon Thunor     destroyer-king

In lightless forests     he lurked and brooded

For blood and souls     he sat in wait

Bawling for offerings     of beasts and men

To mollify his malice     and murderous wrath

The folk feared him     and fed him well—

A spiteful ogre     they served as a god.

A tree there was     terrible and foul

Held sacred to the slaughterer     and strong with his will

An ancient oak     of eldritch form

Above all others     it ascended high

Its towering trunk     was twisted and gnarled

Darkened by bloodstains     defiled by wounds    

Marred by the marks     of magical rites

Where victims were bound     and bled and died

Suffering for the sport     of the savage one.

A tragic tree     tormented and bent

In the shadows it shuddered     in shame and grief

Worthy wood     by wickedness blackened

Groaning beneath     its grisly burden.

In the silent forest     it stood alone

Awaiting a saviour     to set it free.

Blessed Boniface     that bold shepherd

Turned to Thuringia     its taint to cleanse

Once more a missionary     marching forth

To claim for Christ     a cursed land.

When he arrived     that apostle of glory

He gathered the folk     in the great clearing

That lay round the tree     of terror and woe.

With a shout he summoned them     like a sounding bell

Striding in, fearless,     to face them all.

‘Hearken!’ he hailed them     that hero of the Lord

He opened his lips     unlocked his word-hoard.

‘I bring you tidings     of the True King!

Long has your land     languished in shadows

Beneath the yoke     of a bent master—

Thunor the Thunderer,     thankless god—

He is a liar     and loves you not!

His power is paltry—     a pitiful thing!

He is a ghost     grasping for life

Greedy for glory     but giving none.

He chews up your children     as choice morsels

His mead-horn brims     with the blood of your men!

Drunk on your misery     your mirthless god

Hates and hungers     and makes hollow vows—

He is unworthy     of worship and praise!

‘Now I will sing     of the Sovereign of Heaven

Wonder-worker,     Wise Creator,

Whose hand hung     the heavens above

As roof and rafters     for the realm of men.

Middle-earth He gave us     a gift for His children—

Beauties and bounties     and blessings untold.

And when we had marred     that marvellous gift

By pride and depravity     and perfidious deeds

And faithless, fallen     to the Foe of mankind

Christ the captives     came to save!

That young Hero     that was God Almighty

Paid the weregild     for the world’s ransom

And by His Blood     He banished death

In awesome combat     He conquered all

And returned, to reign,     at the right hand of God

The Father Almighty     our Maker and King

Lord of life     and lover of men.

Kindliest of kings     is Christ our Master

Giver of gifts     far greater than rings—

He was made Man     so that men might rise,

And join in the glory     of Godlike life—

Joyous and wonderful     world without end!

Christ is the Master     and Maker of all

He made your Thunderer     ere that one rebelled

He planted this tree     that you’ve tortured and bent

He saves and sustains     with a swift, sure hand

But instead of the Maker     his makings you praise!

Thunor is powerless     to protect his own—

This I will show you     And shatter his lies.’

So saying     that saintly bishop

Seized up an axe     and struck at the tree.

The gathered people     gasped and reeled

As the blade bit     the bole of the oak

That stroke resounding     in the silent grove—

Surely their god     would not suffer this taunt!

But bold Boniface     battered and chopped

And sang a psalm     as he struck his blows.

Then lighting leapt     from the luminous vault

And smote the tree     in its topmost branches

Fire flared up     fiercely shining

And Heaven roared     with rousing thunder

Answering the arrogance     of the old pretender.

Christ the Word     the world’s maker

The Scop who’d sung     the song of creation

Wielded the wind     and with its power

Toppled the tree     of the terrible one.

The trunk was riven     and rent asunder

Fractured, it fell     in four equal parts

And smoking spread     strewn on the ground

Shattered they lay     in the shape of a cross.

Boniface stood     and straightened his back

His axe he cast     on the cold ground

And lifted his eyes     to the light of heaven

To the Glory-Giver     God almighty

A solemn Te Deum     he sang to give thanks.

When he had finished      the folk marvelled

At the wonder worked     by the will of the Lord.

Their forest fane     lay felled in ruin

And their old master     was mute before God.

‘What!’ said the saint     ‘What will you be?—

Thunor’s thrallsor thanes of Christ?’

To a man they answered     in mingled voices

In a joyful throng     they thundered forth

And pledged their lives     to the Lord of Hosts.

VI.

LESSED Boniface     then bade the folk

To build a chapel     from the broken tree

Its four parts   would frame the corners

Of a mighty throne-house     for the Maker of all.

For the Prince of Apostles     Peter the Rock

The church would be named     and charged with grace

Holy Mass     at its high altar

Would daily be said     and the divine office

Be chanted in choir     by canons there.

Craftsman soon came     from the countryside

Hastening to help     in the holy work

To hammer and shape     to hew and carve

To build and gild     the beams of the hall

Where Christ enthroned     in the consecrated Host

Would reign in majesty     and mighty love

The Saviour, Self-Giver     Shepherd and King

Feeding his folk     with his own flesh and blood.

Quickly they finished     this finest of buildings

And raised the Rood     on the roof of its tower.

In the best bronze     a bell they cast

To toll out the triumph     of the True King.

Pictures they painted     of the Passion of the Lord

Of the Saints and the sacraments     and all sacred things.

It stood at last     a shining beacon

A fitting feast-hall     for the Father of men.

Its doors were opened     to all who would come

To taste and see     that the Saviour is good.

Holy Boniface     boldest of shepherds

From his long labour     at last could rest.

He’d harrowed and hallowed     that heathen land

And cast out the darkness     and the devils of old.

No shadow could linger     in the Light of Christ—

The King of all kings     and kindliest lord

Above all most wonderful     and worthiest of praise.