The lights of Lancaster reflect on the slate gray clouds of this rainy evening,
And the dark tracery of the trees stands like a rood screen in some great cathederal of old.
The curling smoke of Dominican tobacco curls seductively like incense,
While Irish whiskey fortifies me against the cold of a late winter's night.
Terriers, ever faithful, walk the bounds as if rogation day is upon us,
like choristers in a simpler time, they follow those instincts which come only from God.
And the rain falls gently, ever so gently, to bring new life to garden and copse,
Simple reminders that the grace of a loving heavenly Father is with us still.
The father of lies savages church and kingdom, and things are not as they were,
But here, in this hallowed place, evidence abounds that God reigns, patient and triumphant,
Ever blessing, ever blest, seerene and at peace with all he has made,
Waiting that we might have ample time to repent and be reconciled to him through Christ our Lord.
The quiet of the night is broken only by the sound of the rain,
And the problems of the morrow are buried in the night.
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