On the night Saint Aidan died,
You dreamt you saw his floating soul
Carried as he left this earth;
And so you saw the mantel fall
From Aidan onto your small shoulders,
Saw the see that you would take,
Lindisfarne, your home.
They say you wandered through the hills
The warmth within your strong glance drawing
Sin out from its hole.
And somehow you kept your feet
Firmly planted in this soil
Yet your eyes drew always up
To heaven and its joys.
Cuthbert, we are lost at sea.
Our sin lurks in the shadows where
It seldom is revealed.
Yet across the mountains we
Can see bright heaven’s call.
May we walk out as you walked
And find its heights of joy.
The Consolations of Writing 