This poem was written by Adrian Plass and read by Adrian and his wife Bridget during our Director Phil Stone's licensing service.  Encapsulating much of Scargill's life and ministry, we hope it inspires you to visit Scargill soon. 

Blessed are the swallows and the martins and the bats,
The weasels and the foxes and the pheasants and the rats.
Blessed are the partridges, the curlews and the voles,
The buzzards and the bluetits and the blessed, blinking moles.

Blessed are the rabbits,
Blessed are their overactive reproductive habits
Blessed are the farmers, who adore the creatures too,
Under pie-crust, or with dumplings in an unforgiving stew.

Blessed are our neighbours and our churches and our pubs,
Our singers and our ringers, all our cafés and our clubs. 
Blessed are the buses and twice blessed when they stop,
Blessings upon blessings on our local village shop. 

Blessed are the garden walls,
Where morning peach and evening purple falls,
Upon the soft seclusion of that magical retreat,
So secret, so sweet. 

Blessed is this house of peace, each brick and tile and slate,
Each cup and bowl and jug and spoon, each knife and fork and plate.
Blessed is the altar, blessed are the pews,
Blessed are the bedrooms, thrice, quadruple blessed are the loos
Blessed are the doors, the floors, the neverending daily chores,
The mains, the drains, the window panes
Blessed is the bravely futile chapel damp-defier, someone's tiny, optimistic dehumidifier.

Blessed are the visitors,
The short, the tall, the sensitive, the numb,
The ones who sadly shake their heads and wonder if their turn will ever come
Blessed are the blighted, blessed nuisances,
The ones who make us tear our hair,
And swear, and punch our pillows in the middle of the night,

Blessed is the sane and gentle light that warms the heart of true responsibility.
Blessed are the fat, the thin, the straight, the bowed, the bent,
Blessed are the ones who book, and blessed are the ones who reach our doors by some strange accident.
Blessed are the lost, the bossed about,
Tired, fired, wild and wired, bullied, disappointed, uninspired,
Blessed is the child inside, lying low, but still wide-eyed,And ready for a fairground ride with Jesus.

Blessed are the ones who built and loved and toiled within this little world of work and prayer,
Blessed is the future they have placed into our care.
Blessed are the loyal volunteers,
Who cried hot tears because they feared this home from home had died,
But found there was a space for them,
A necessary place for them to love it back to life. 

Blessed is the playground, and the laughter that at last,
Will ripple through this valley like an echo of the past
Blessed - all our hopes and dreams, the planning and the visions, Blessed are the difficult decisions.

Blessed - this community, Resurected, newly born, restored.

Blessed are the Yorkshire Dales

Blessed is the Lord.