The Sleeping Stone
By Patience Strong
I stopped to call a taxi in the heart of Babylon.
At the pavementís edge I stood - the traffic writhing on
Leftward to the Whitehall turning like a lustrous snake
Or rightward to Westminster Bridge, the southbound road to take,
There to pass proud Boadicea set towards the tower
Where Big Ben in his solemn grandeur booms the passing hour
As if to warn the seething crowds that Time brooks no de!ay
As he sifts the minutes of the unforgiving day.
While I across the street looked out towards the Abbey wall -
Afloat behind a spray of limpid light that seemed to fall
Veiling the secret features of the Abbeyís ancient face
That houses Jacobís Bethel stone in its appointed place...
Where Israelís holy treasure lies for every eye to see:
Safe in our keeping. This, the very Stone of Destiny.
The taxi came. Again we plunged into the turgid stream -
And glancing back, the Abbey seemed remote as in a dream.
Sculptured in its frozen calm it stood apart, alone,
Sharing with God the hidden knowledge of the sleeping stone.