Edwardtide Digital Pilgrimage

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Listen to the poem here

An Anglo-Saxon Poem

Anonymous

In this year King Eadward, lord of the English,

sent his truth-fast soul unto Christ

into the protection of God and the Holy Spirit.

He dwelt for a while in this world

among royal hosts, skilled in counsel,

for twenty-four and one-half counts of winter,

generous sovereign, distributing riches,

the wielder of heroes, ruling excellently well

over Wales and Scotland and Britain as well,

the child of Æthelræd, over the Angles and Saxons,

over the champions, as they were embraced

by the frigid seas, so that they all obeyed

loyally Eadward, the noble king,

these brave and young men.

The king empty of evil was ever blithe-minded,

though he was deprived of land for a long time before,

dwelling upon the exile-trail, widely throughout the earth

since Cnut conquered the kindred of Æthelræd

and the Danes ruled over the precious realm

of England for twenty-eight counts of winter,

sharing out its wealth. Afterwards the king

chosen by God emerged forth, in plenteous armament,

pure and mild, Eadward the noble

defending his homeland, the country and its people,

until death the bitter came upon him quickly

and seized that nobleman so dear from the earth—

angels ferried that truth-fast soul into the heaven’s light.

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Station 2

Listen to the poem here

An Excerpt from God's Trombones - James Weldon Johnson

O Lord, we come this morning

Knee-bowed and body-bent

Before Thy throne of grace.

O Lord—this morning—

Bow our hearts beneath our knees,

And our knees in some lonesome valley.

We come this morning—

Like empty pitchers to a full fountain,

With no merits of our own.

O Lord—open up a window of heaven,

And lean out far over the battlements of glory,

And listen this morning.

Station 3

Listen to the poem here

O Lord, we come this morning

Knee-bowed and body-bent

Before Thy throne of grace.

O Lord—this morning—

Bow our hearts beneath our knees,

And our knees in some lonesome valley.

We come this morning—

Like empty pitchers to a full fountain,

With no merits of our own.

O Lord—open up a window of heaven,

And lean out far over the battlements of glory,

And listen this morning.

Station 4

Listen to the poem here

O Lord, we come this morning

Knee-bowed and body-bent

Before Thy throne of grace.

O Lord—this morning—

Bow our hearts beneath our knees,

And our knees in some lonesome valley.

We come this morning—

Like empty pitchers to a full fountain,

With no merits of our own.

O Lord—open up a window of heaven,

And lean out far over the battlements of glory,

And listen this morning.

Listen to the poem here

O Lord, we come this morning

Knee-bowed and body-bent

Before Thy throne of grace.

O Lord—this morning—

Bow our hearts beneath our knees,

And our knees in some lonesome valley.

We come this morning—

Like empty pitchers to a full fountain,

With no merits of our own.

O Lord—open up a window of heaven,

And lean out far over the battlements of glory,

And listen this morning.

Listen to the poem here

O Lord, we come this morning

Knee-bowed and body-bent

Before Thy throne of grace.

O Lord—this morning—

Bow our hearts beneath our knees,

And our knees in some lonesome valley.

We come this morning—

Like empty pitchers to a full fountain,

With no merits of our own.

O Lord—open up a window of heaven,

And lean out far over the battlements of glory,

And listen this morning.

Listen to the poem here

O Lord, we come this morning

Knee-bowed and body-bent

Before Thy throne of grace.

O Lord—this morning—

Bow our hearts beneath our knees,

And our knees in some lonesome valley.

We come this morning—

Like empty pitchers to a full fountain,

With no merits of our own.

O Lord—open up a window of heaven,

And lean out far over the battlements of glory,

And listen this morning.

Listen to the poem here

O Lord, we come this morning

Knee-bowed and body-bent

Before Thy throne of grace.

O Lord—this morning—

Bow our hearts beneath our knees,

And our knees in some lonesome valley.

We come this morning—

Like empty pitchers to a full fountain,

With no merits of our own.

O Lord—open up a window of heaven,

And lean out far over the battlements of glory,

And listen this morning.

You are surrounded by history at the Abbey, not like a museum where it’s just displayed, but here you are standing where history has happened.

Gerlinde - Abbey Marshal

Edwardtide Digital Pilgrimage

An Anglo-Saxon Poem

Station 2

An Excerpt from God's Trombones - James Weldon Johnson

Station 3

Station 4

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