Reepham Benefice
Rediscovering the past: through a mixture of luck, slow and paint staking research and lots of patience, we are beginning to piece together some of the names recorded on the WWI Memorial in St. Michael’s Chancel more>
Twelve ‘o clock striking! The night was cold and dear,
Clouds were fast gathering and the winds blew up and down
A rush of rain went driving through the air,
It hid the distant moorland and the neighbouring town.
Upon the sodden grass a soldier lay
And cried with fevered lips – “The battle goes and comes,
I hear the tramp of armies on their way,
And the throb and the rattle of the drums.”
One o’clock striking! The pitiless rain drove by,
While the battle rolled away to the hills at last,
And the night windows wailed and no other sound was nigh
But the struggle of a life that was ebbing fast.
With a sob for every sigh and a pang for every breath,
And a muttered pray’r for help amid his pain,
In his eyes a scene of terror and of death
And a wild dream of tumult in his brain.
Two o’ clock striking! The rain had almost ceased,
The wind was sinking lower and a kind of star shone,
And a faint gleam of hope thrilled the soldier’s heart,
Because the night was passing and his pain was gone.
He heard amid the trees a rustling low,
As they shivered in the damp and chilly air,
And in his weary eyes there woke a glow,
For he thought he heard his mother on the stair.
Three o’ clock striking! Time for the moon to rise –
She hardly dared to shine on the battle plain below,
She glided like a ghost across the skies
And rested on the soldier’s peaceful brow.
And in her light his face lit up with joy,
For he saw his mother’s lamp beside his bed,
He knew that she had come to kiss her boy,
And once again his childish prayer was said.
Four o’clock striking! The dawn rose cold and white,
A sleepy bird twittered, the shadows slipped away,
And a bugle call came sounding from the height
And reached the silent meadows where he lay.
But the soldier slept in peace, his duty done,
He heeded not the bugle, nor the battle’s fire,
For with the dawn his last long fight was won,
And he heard the great promotion, “Come up higher!”
By Mary Bradford Whiting
Published in St Michael’s Parish Magazine, January 1915
During the summer of 2008 our research found a sermon preached from St Michael’s Church on November 1st 1915. more>
