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King Edmund's body, arrowed to the oak, is dead.
Only the grey wolf guards nearby his sacred head.
They buried the King deep in dank and wooded dark,
They buried the King under clayen clods and cold,
They shrined the Saint in glory by Linnet and Lark,
They buried the Saint with the Faith they lost of old,
Entombing both in hardening heart and doubting thought
And mocking minds that long ago Christ's blood had bought.

But still from homes and stows where earth and heaven met
To Edmund's holiness come voices calling yet.
For here live hopebright hearts who hallowed by their cares
Have kept the Faith of Martyr Edmund and his Lord.
Beseeching blessings from above they seek with prayers
The Coming Soon of Him Who is by them Adored,
And calling on Edmund who lives in seeing skies,
They watch and wait for the Kingdom where no man dies.