St Runwald's Preachment

Under an old Essex road
Lie the stones of a long-lost church
Named for St Runwald, a baby prince and saint
And here's how that infant's story's told:

The instant that child was born
He pulled himself up and took breath
Crying, "My darling Mother, O my royal Father dear
In three fleeting days I'll be dead
So call for the priest and his oils
Then draw some water from the well
And christen me Runwald by the Father, Son and Holy Ghost
This night I've a sermon to tell!"

Raising his eyes to the heavens
He prayed that God might guide his infant tongue
A cot for his pulpit, swaddling bands for robes
"Harken all you sinners!" he began

"Beware of those babblers who hold forth
To fill the air with the cackling caws of crows
Who crave fools for their captains, train tricksters to be kings
Then fill their minds with proud imaginings
When riches buy favour and grace
And truth counts for nought when rulers speak
Then swap rumour for wisdom and raise up the humble and meek
As God puts down the mighty from their seats!"

When time came for Runwald to depart
The saint tried to ease his parents' hearts
Saying, "Three dawns and sunsets makes a holy number of days
For in three days the Lord destroyed the grave"

Now listen well all you who have ears
For Runwald's sermon calls to us all:
If you follow babblers or lend your trust to fools
By cruel whim, not love, you'll be ruled