To fields of green, green grass he came, who once had fled in fear. He brought his tales of hope. He planned a future. Peace came near. The serpent-tongued he cast into the cold and held his staff, snake-bent but shepherd’s mold. He welcomed prince and pauper to the fold.
In fields of green, green clover then he told of three-fold God. He promised fatherhood to fatherless, son-hood to all. He promised spirit’s truth to conquer lies and rescue lives.
In fields of grass he held his staff placed firmly at his feet. Its roots grew strong, Aspatria, Patrick’s ash.