Lo, He comes with clouds descending . . .
Helmsley rings its clarion call!
In the Close the elms are bending
’Neath the wild December squall.
Candles in the Choir-stalls flicker,
Aisles are dark and nave is dim,
Where some lonely country Vicar
Listens to his favourite hymn.
Hark, a thrilling voice is sounding . . .
(Zion waits to greet the Star).
Mr Dean in tone astounding
Wrecks the anthem bar by bar.
Next to him a mild Archdeacon
(Eighty-three, completely deaf),
Wishes he were not so weak on
Reading in the alto clef.
These are days to be remembered,
(Purcell, in the Lord rejoice!)
When the year is being Decembered,
(Wisdom, answer Doctor Boyce!)
When the wind in transept cries,
And Thomas bears the shortest day,
Warm the heart who knows that sighs
And sorrowings shall flee away.