Part 5: Ancient Druid Stones
“Sister, how and where should we worship,
Christ?” Questions asked by those who
Revered pagan gods, and by inspiration
Divine, turned to Prince of Peace. Place
They knew well, to ancient Druid stones
I led them, sunlit oak woods, sanctity of
Untold ages. Nearby straight sapling we
Cut, Christ’s cross worshipers hand-
Crafted, adorned with flowering vines,
Offerings placed upon stones, Pagan
Rituals and early Christianity admixed.
“To whom do these stones belong, Druids
Or Christians?” elder woman asked, cane
Walking, respected amongst assembled
Clans. “To themselves, ageless stones
Belong,” I offered. “We honour them with
Our rituals, as these shrines belong to no
One, and to everyone they are sacred,
Christian and Druid alike.” Hearing this,
First few stepped forward to accept Christ,
Knelt upon flat stones, obedience at the
Cross, Lord’s Prayer in unison repeated,
Baptized in nearby flowing streams.
Beyond reach of monasteries, thus was
Early Christian worship across Irish fields
And firths. Few gathered in his name,
Christ was present. I did not ask them to
Denounce ancient Druid feasts or festivals,
But to include Christ in daily life, morning
And mealtime prayers, to visit stones week
Once. I understood their lives, hard labours
In fields, crops and field beasts to attend,
Such duties to farm and family came first
If they were to survive winters cold.
Upon leaving their farmlands, I blessed
Stones with prayers and water sprinkled.
Whilst securing cross at flat-stones, white-
Clad woman approached from wood-edge,
Druid priestess by dress and walking staff,
Two women of differing faiths meeting
Face-to-face. “Your words of stones, we
Heard. Before Christ, they were here, and
Here they shall remain.” In agreement,
I nodded, for as we talked, common belief
We shared: omnipresent divine-creator.
Together we both walked lonely paths, one
Of faith, winding deeper into forests. Here
Amongst God’s creation, thoughts we shared:
Miracles and glories seen and known, healing
Battle wounded, sick and dying. Lo! Through
Prayer, faith, healing herbs, health restored.
Against adversity, we persevered. In these
Ways, we were “sisters of faith,” beliefs held
Sacred, reverence of stone circles. Small
Wooden cross I made for Sister Blaithnaid,
Water-polished prayer stone she gifted me.
Fingers on one hand, by this fifth poem, my
Poetry-recorded life draws near. Upon Irish
Seashores I cling, my soul-light amongst sun-
Filled ocean clouds, to restful sleep I return.
For time is like rise and ebb of tides, one
Moment I am here, next roaming Celtic-Irish
Countryside. Lo! By any year or place, I sing
Love-praises of Ireland and of Christ. “There
By many that say, who will shew us any good?
Lord, lift thou up the light of thy countenance
Upon us.” Psalm 4:6, KJV.
Sister Muriel is a fictional poetic character and mystic, who
ministered to Celtic Ireland during advent of Christianity
and early monasteries, circa 6th or 7th century. Thank-you
for your kind comments about this series of poems.