Heptonstall Chapel Poem by C Richard Miles

These stones have stood two hundred years and forty more
And scan Hardcastle Crags across from Heptonstall,
Hoist high above the Hebble’s ferny forest’s floor
But they may fall.

Though Wesley preached to hundreds in this hallowed place,
This wayside chapel, gaunt-boned, gritstone octagon
Whose generations worshipped, prayed and gained God’s grace,
May soon be gone.

As congregations dwindle and are raked by age
Whilst gnarled, arthritic hands now tend each grassy grave
And strive against time’s tyranny and rainstorm’s rage
Can faith still save?

Can centuries of care and whispered, well-meant prayer
Maintain the mystery, uphold the crumbling span
Of heritage and heaven now mingled seamless, there?
We hope they can.

This ancient place where Methodists have lived and died
Might bear the brunt of faithlessness and storm-cloud’s ill.
But, with the wealth of well-wishers and local pride,
May prosper still.

Let not this sacred place, this humble, holy spot
Succumb to selfishness and grasping greed
And fail the test of time, and crumble, rust and rot:
There is no need.

No dire developer must foster foolish plans
And dare to spoil this site where faithful feet have trod:
The architect who forms the future in his hands
Must just be God.

For He, whose love caused man to mould these moorside walls
Shall surely wield His will and summon strength, which slept,
To save and succour, so this gem of Heptonstall’s
Will safe be kept.

And, with strong will and sheer determination’s drive,
As keeping hold on history, throughout our land,
New flames of faith faint flicker, kindle, come alive:
These stones shall stand.