A picture shows you robed in green
With gold-gilt sleeves and sparkling jewels.
You hold a church within your hands:
A church with mighty steeple.
And yet you felt the weight of this,
The church you strove to build;
You felt the weight of failure and
The journeys which did not succeed,
The schools which failed to grow.
Your visions did not save you, nor
The churches that you built.
You knew the way that we must sow
These humble seeds in dead of night,
In unforgiving soil.
Angsar, know: Christ’s church holds you
When kings defy your noble efforts. Know it is not jewels nor gold:
It’s He who makes us sparkle.