with John Harris.

Across the bay a storm-tossed sea

whipped to a fury by the biting wind,

a vast cauldron of froth and foam,

in its seething whiteness more like some drifting snowscene,

the heaving swell surging inwards,

breakers pounding against the sea wall

resounding like a mighty thunderclap,

exploding in a massive plume of spray

towering above human habitation,

before crashing to the ground below.

Overhead the sky, leaden and louring,

the Mount lost to view in cloud and rain,

when suddenly the gloom is brightened by a rainbow,

its foot where the blessed isle should be,

which spectre-like emerges from the mist,

at its summit the ancient chair of St.Michael

bathed in the light of the bow -

the sign of God's everlasting mercy,

and of his covenant with mankind

that never again would the waters destroy the earth.

And before the throne of God stands Michael the Archangel,

guardian of souls, patron of our bay, Protector of Cornwall,

ever watching over us, aiding our prayers

and those of all the saints

as they ascend to the Divine Presence,

our Rock and our Redeemer,

His arm outstretched to take our hand

as on the squall-stricken Sea of Galillee,

that in all life's storms, no surge or shock,

tempest nor torrent, shall make us fear,

for naught can separate us from his love.

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