To the shrine of Holy Cuthbert
The wreckers came with wrath and spite.
To the shrine of Holy Cuthbert
The robbers came to steal and slight.
Deformers, darkened in their mind,
Bone rot was all they thought to find,
But instead a body they saw,
Sweet-scented and inspiring awe.
For the grace that hallowed his life
Did not leave us in times of strife.

At first the Christ-haters fell back,
Then in menace moved forward again.
The Christ-hating mob in mood black,
Could not be stopped or stayed by men.
The wealth around the saint they stole,
In dark anger his leg they broke,
Wanting him fornaught and not whole.
But then England awoke and spoke,
And to Durham with heart or feet
Ran with the honour that is meet.

So she revered our God-bearer,
Cuthbert from Lindisfarne above,
Than all the English saints fairer,
And asked him with meekness and love
And with tear upon burning tear
To pray for the now stricken land,
Until, raised up by prayers so dear,
She becomes anew Eden’s strand
As she was ever called to be:
The Garden of the Trinity.

(With thanks to Walt who inspired and shaped most of the above)