Tattenhoe - a Poem by Mabel Smith
Hidden it stands, this little church,
With cornfields all around;
But those who come to worship know
That this is holy ground.
And when the summer sun shines low
Across the level field,
The people come, with hearts aglow,
To God their praise to yield.
Built from the stones of ancient shrine,
By men whose bones are dust,
It still entreats of all who come
In God to put their trust .
Some day perhaps this little church
Will serve a larger throng
Of those who come from city great
To join with us in their song.
Meanwhile we'll keep our ancient shrine
Unharmed by wind and rain;
And in our summer evensongs
Fill it with joyful strain.
Mabel Smith (wife of Revd. Hilton Smith one time Vicar of Whaddon with Tattenhoe)
Hidden it stands, this little church,
With cornfields all around;
But those who come to worship know
That this is holy ground.
And when the summer sun shines low
Across the level field,
The people come, with hearts aglow,
To God their praise to yield.
Built from the stones of ancient shrine,
By men whose bones are dust,
It still entreats of all who come
In God to put their trust .
Some day perhaps this little church
Will serve a larger throng
Of those who come from city great
To join with us in their song.
Meanwhile we'll keep our ancient shrine
Unharmed by wind and rain;
And in our summer evensongs
Fill it with joyful strain.
Mabel Smith (wife of Revd. Hilton Smith one time Vicar of Whaddon with Tattenhoe)