In the hour of my distress...

Today, some dear friends will bid farewell to a treasured father and grandfather, known affectionately as “Bod”. With almost a month’s delay between his death and obsequies, the emotional strain has been tremendous. There is something very acute in the pain one feels at the loss of a parent; that source of wisdom and guidance has left this physical world and the bereaved is now alone. In truth, we hope and trust that our loved one is closer to us than we might imagine, by virtue of the Cross and the grace which flows from it; soon to be among the multitude which no man can number (Cf Apoc. 7).

There is a beautiful poem by the C16 English poet, Robert Herrick, “His Litany to the Holy Spirit”. I came across this poem when I was nine. During the late 1970s I used to spend summer vacations, and other holidays, in Cirencester, due to my mother’s illness. She had terminal cancer and her death was drawn out over several years. I think my father and grandmother felt these extended holidays would provide a young boy with some form of respite.

It worked. I had wonderful times staying with our kind family friends. Fr John Beck, and his wife Susan, had been friends of my family for many years. They moved from Cheltenham to Cirencester in the mid 1970s, where Fr John assumed the position of Priest-Organist at the magnificent parish Church of S John the Baptist. They were a formidable team who turned the choir of men’s and boys’ voices into one of the finest parish church choirs in the country; indeed, Cirencester Parish Church choir was possibly better than some cathedrals at the time. While staying with the Becks, I, too, sang in the choir. In addition to building up their own choir, they arranged weeklong choir courses for choristers from the surrounding counties. These courses were always over subscribed, such was their popularity. It was during these weeks, that I came to know Charles Hazlewood, now a renowned musician, conductor and BBC presenter. I used to enjoy long conversations with his father, who in addition to his role as Vicar of Prestbury, was exorcist for the Anglican Diocese of Gloucester. (His parochial living was apposite, as the village of Prestbury, on the outskirts of Cheltenham, is noted for being one of the most haunted places in the UK. Even the church has a ghost!)

The Becks had a magnificent medieval home in Cecily Hill with an amazing garden, which featured in all the national gardening magazines. I claimed the entire loft space as my domain and when I wasn’t enjoying the vast house, I could wander, safely, into the adjacent Cirencester Park- a vast grassy avenue of about six miles leading to Sapperton. Amidst the trees were follies and summerhouses, such as “Pope’s Seat”, named after the poet who frequented the park when a houseguest of the then Lord Bathurst. Some readers may know of the park’s royal connections, notably polo and the Prince Charles.

This was the childhood of a bygone age; even back then, it was not typical, such were the rapid encroaches of modern life under which we travail today. I had great fun, so that looking back, I feel awkward. I know my mother was happy in the knowledge that I was contented and well looked after; but, nonetheless, to have such happy memories of times which were also marked by my mother’s pain seems wrong. Perhaps that is why certain things from that time have remained so vivid in my mind. The Herrick poem is one such example. I sang it as a solo one evening at Evensong; my mother, well enough to travel to Cirencester, sat in a wheelchair with the most serene smile on her face, listening as I warbled. However, it is more than just a pretty piece of music. This poem reaches into our innermost solitude, that part of our being (soma, psycho and pneuma) that no other mortal being can ever know, and reminds us that we are not alone. The Sweet Spirit is ever-comforting us, always our companion and advocate. I’ve reproduced the text of the poem beneath the video. I think you’ll agree, it’s powerful!

As you listen to “His Litany to the Holy Spirit”, please remember “Bod” and his loving family in your prayers.



In the hour of my distress,
When temptations me oppress,
And when I my sins confess,
Sweet Spirit, comfort me !

When I lie within my bed,
Sick in heart and sick in head,
And with doubts discomforted,
Sweet Spirit, comfort me !

When the house doth sigh and weep,
And the world is drown'd in sleep,
Yet mine eyes the watch do keep,
Sweet Spirit, comfort me !

When the artless doctor sees
No one hope, but on his fees,
And his skill runs on the lees,
Sweet Spirit, comfort me !

When his potion and his pill
Has, or none, or little skill,
Meet for nothing, but to kill ;
Sweet Spirit, comfort me !

When the passing bell doth toll,
And the furies in a shoal
Come to fright a parting soul,
Sweet Spirit, comfort me !

When the tapers now burn blue,
And the comforters are few,
And that number more than true,
Sweet Spirit, comfort me !

When the priest his last hath prayed,
And I nod to what is said,
'Cause my speech is now decayed,
Sweet Spirit, comfort me !

When, God knows, I'm toss'd about,
Either with despair, or doubt ;
Yet before the glass be out,
Sweet Spirit, comfort me !

When the tempter me pursu'th
With the sins of all my youth,
And half damns me with untruth,
Sweet Spirit, comfort me !

When the flames and hellish cries
Fright mine ears, and fright mine eyes,
And all terrors me surprise,
Sweet Spirit, comfort me !

When the judgment is reveal'd,
And that open'd which was seal'd,
When to Thee I have appeal'd,
Sweet Spirit, comfort me !