A group of islands, loved and lovely, first a colony -
Strung out like a necklace flung across the southern seas -
Now a beautiful Dominion, God's own gift to us -
A jewel in the Israel crown, a pearl most marvellous
Rich in churches, farms and cities; pastures, cattle, sheep -
where this people British-bred their ancient laws may keep.
First of Britain's family to come to Britain's aid -
In two great world-wide wars - the memory shall not fade -
From the Mother heart that beats in London's sanctuary.
Across the world we hail New Zealand - one of our company.
THIS ONE THING
Westward sailed the Mayflower pilgrims to a better law -
Where in freedom they might live - as Puritans to stand -
For liberty of mind and soul, prepared to sacrifice
- all they had for this one thing: the pearl beyond all
Thus did they fulfill the Jacobean prophecy -
That the sons of Joseph in the course of time should be -
Two great nations working out God's plan from age to age:
Ephraim and Manasseh, heirs to Israel's heritage.
Our Anglo-Saxon ancestry - the bond of blood we share -
Is this secret and the strength of this our common prayer:
Forgive us our iniquities as we in patience -
Ask a blessing for ourselves and our inheritance.
THE APPOINTED PLACE
Our identity is veiled for those who cannot see - the truth
behind the legends. They have lost the vital key - of prophecy -
fulfilled when came the holocaust of wars - and European powers beat
iron-fisted at our doors.
We are not of Europe. We, the Anglo-Saxon breed - have
grown from Jacob's seed - and travelled through the centuries to 'the
appointed place' - destined to become the royal cradle of our race.
Here we have been planted, spreading boughs across the sea
- for we are the children of the Lord of history ... Read the Word
most marvellous and by its lantern trace - the story of our pilgrimage
to the appointed place.
Westwards from Canaan to Scythia and westwards thence to
the God-blessed Isles of the West - later to send sons and daughters
to establish new nations in all the continents.
THE SLEEPING STONE
I stopped to call a
taxi in the heart of Babylon.
At the pavementís
edge I stood - the traffic writhing on
Leftward to the
Whitehall turning like a lustrous snake
Or rightward to
Westminster Bridge, the southbound road to take,
There to pass proud
Boadicea set towards the tower
Where Big Ben in his
solemn grandeur booms the passing hour
As if to warn the
seething crowds that Time brooks no de!ay
As he sifts the
minutes of the unforgiving day.
While I across the
street looked out towards the Abbey wall -
Afloat behind a
spray of limpid light that seemed to fall
Veiling the secret
features of the Abbeyís ancient face
That houses Jacobís
Bethel stone in its appointed place...
Where Israelís holy
treasure lies for every eye to see:
Safe in our keeping.
This, the very Stone of Destiny.
The taxi came. Again
we plunged into the turgid stream -
And glancing back,
the Abbey seemed remote as in a dream.
Sculptured in its
frozen calm it stood apart, alone,
Sharing with God the
hidden knowledge of the sleeping stone.