It was the Christian Saxons’ hope
That each monastic house should
Gift a generous charity,
Wrapping their buildings with welcome,
Drawing all, from every strand and stratum,
Towards a warm security;
And, where heathen men still harried
The land, despatch their zealous monks
In mission, to found bright minsters
Where compassion disarmed violence
And fear by gentleness was staunched.
These minsters shunned all lofty pomp,
Not for them flamboyant ritual
Or cathedrals’ vaulting grandeur.
Instead, Christ’s call to serve in love
Patterned this ancient rule of life.

Today, this Ipswich church pledges
To resurrect that Saxon scheme.
For its foundations were set then,
When thousands shunned the old Norse Gods,
Odin was eclipsed by Christ’s bright light
And cobwebs draped Valhalla’s halls.

Now, there are no marauding Danes.
No pirates pillage our low coasts
But listlessness and hollow hopes
Stalk our streets. Many have not heard
The News, have missed the signs, have lost
The old map, and crave wise advice.
Time to conjure a new Minster. 

Pointing at St Mary’s tower,
Where twelve bells’ chimes sound the power
Across the newly wakening town,
The citizens of Ipswich stand
Alert, their aspiration honed,
A fresh ambition to pursue,
To forge a town where sloth and greed
Have no great hold; instead an iron
Zeal to care, to build and foster
Wields its mighty sceptre. Today,
Our Minster’s mission holds firm sway,
For we shall found on Suffolk ground
A glorious Jerusalem.