 | Lyra Pastoralis |  |
The Priest's Door
LITTLE DRIFFIELD CHURCH
In that grey Church where Alfred's bones were laidTwelve centuries since, we opened the Priest's door,
Walled up for many a year, and from the floor
We cleared the dust and stones with brush and spade;
When lo, the ancient doorstep was displayed,
Worn by the feet that traversed it of yore,
Leaving this trace of service, and no more,
As age by age they vanished into shade.
Priest after priest, unnamed, unknown, they came
Treading this stone, and at the altar stood,
And lifted up the everlasting Name:
Void be our lives, like theirs, of earthly fame,
If we but leave some footsteps true and good
Of lowly service and of lofty aim!
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