“I defy the Pope and all his laws. If God spare my life, ere many years I will cause the boy who drives the plough to know more of the scriptures than thou dost.”

                                                                                                                      ~William Tyndale

As golden mist of morning lights the fields,
The people crowd the English country church.
Their hearts are worn, but eyes betray some hope
That grows between the hardened spaces of
The soul, so small, yet strong, like weeds that will
Not die. They wait for the doors to open wide.
A desperate ploughboy sprints through open fields
As bells begin to ring. He follows through
The opened doors where people move to wait.
The Book upon the pulpit draws all eyes,
A large Book they have never seen before,
But they have heard the price was paid in blood.
Behind the Book, a man begins to read,
And English Words fall down on withered hearts
Like rains that turn the desert lands to green.
The ploughboy wonders at the thrilling words
And feels their breath blow through his smothered soul–
The answer to a martyr’s dying prayer
From Him alone who holds the hearts of kings.