Classic Poem

Of God's Saints beneath, above,
Chain with links all golden,
Some day haply of our love
One is dearer holden.
As our Lord one saint approved
One before the other,
Giving unto him He loved,
From the cross, His Mother.

So the roll-call of His sons,
Sounding sweet and solemn,
Name we, 'mid His chosen ones,
Ulster's own St. Columb.
Not without his age's taint,
Fierce and unrelenting,
Stern Apostle, weeping Saint,
Sinful and repenting.

Creeds he taught barbaric men
Are our children saying,
Prayers he pray'd in danger then
Daily we are saying.
From his home and kindred skies
Self exiled for ever,
Fond he turn'd his dying eyes
To this oak-crown'd river.

King of Saints, of Whom we hold
Hope of our election,
Soul and spirit do Thou mould
To Thy Saints' perfection,
Till we see Thee evermore,
Ransom'd by Thy dying,
With the Saints on that far shore
'Neath Thine Altar lying.