There is a Saxon Church

There is a Saxon Church,
rough doored, set low,,
upon a rolling hill
in Oxfordshire,
abiding still,
and weathering the wheeling years,
the tides of time.
The rounded Roman arches
just beneath
its leached, eroding tympanum
still testify the triumph
over sin and death
wrought by the Lamb;
inside, where vaulted heaven
touches earth,
I see a carved remembrance of a birth
the angels choired,
and, yes, the throne room
of the King of Kings.
I have often knelt there
and been sainted,
graced,
within the candled half light
some postulant has set aglow
against the stilling,
sacred silence of that place,
and I've come
in prayer
to slowly know
where I am from,
where I am going,
and who, as Oxford man, I am.