The Bishop was due for inspecting the little stone church in the dell,
And the Vicar sat sadly reflecting how his flock by the wayside had fell.
For his sermons were lengthy and boring; the organ was well out of key.
So his flock spent their Sunday in touring and its evening in watching TV.

Thus the offertory box didn’t jingle or clink with the sounds of their coins
And the thought made the Vicar’s spine tingle as he mentally girded his loins.
For he feared that the Bishop might sack him or send him to some far flung hell
Since he had no devout folks to back him in preserving the church in the dell.

As he gazed at each worm-riddled rafter in his cassock all threadbare and thin,
He seemed to hear demonic laughter, as if Satan himself had moved in.
For the roof was all leaky and rotten and the walls far -advanced in decay,
The church stood forlorn and forgotten by those who once came there to pray.

His Verger neglected his station and off to the pub he would slink
For he had succumbed to temptation and found his salvation in drink.
The churchyard was still crammed with people, who lay in their final repose,
But the rusty old bell in the steeple could gain no attention from those.

He noticed a frail bent old figure that moved twixt the weather worn stones.
‘Twas that of his ancient gravedigger who’d delved forty years midst the bones.
His eye caught the glint of a fender as a Rolls stopped beside the lychgate,
Then the Bishop climbed out, in his splendour, and the Vicar awaited his fate.

But the Bishop, instead of approaching the church door, directed his tread
To the graveyard, his sharp eyes reproaching the ill-tended graves of the dead.
His face filled with imminent thunder, to the Sexton he first made his way,
And the gravedigger stared up in wonder as he dug six feet down in the clay.

"My man!" cried the Bishop. "You’re rotten! The churchyard’s an utter disgrace!
It’s God’s Garden – or had you forgotten? He must be ashamed of the place!
And as for the church… It looks awful! The roof’s not been cleaned for a year.
Your negligence, man, is unlawful! I shall see you’re replaced - never fear!"

The gravedigger flung down his shovel, and cried, as he leapt from the grave,
"Forty years I’ve done nothing but grovel down holes in the ground like a slave,
Whilst you’ve lording there in your Palace uncaring for dead people’s souls…
I reckon you’re dead flamin’ callous… So here! Dig yer own flamin’ holes!"

Then the Bishop’s fat jowls turned quite livid, and how he did rant and did rave!
Till he suddenly stiffened and quivered – and toppled full length in the grave!
The Sexton looked down at the body, with a seraphic smile on his face,
And said, "There’s no doubt about God, He sure works in Mysterious Ways!"

He stood there and stared for a minute, then he picked up his trusty old spade.
"Well the grave’s dug, an’ somebody’s in it… I’d better get on with my trade!"
But just as he flung the first spadeful, the vicar raced up and cried; "Stay!
I know that the bishop was hateful… But take off your cap and let’s pray."

As he stood by the grave, looking tearful, the Vicar looked up at the sky.
And was suddenly filled with an Earful of Marvellous Advice from On High,
About changing the death of the Bishop to a triumphant win over Hell
And turn what appeared a great mishap to good for the church in the dell,

Then a crowd magically congregated – All his flock had returned to the fold,
And the Vicar they congratulated, since his churchyard a Bishop would hold.
Now the church is restored to condition and the tourists roll up wave on wave,
For the Vicar’s now charging admission to visit the great Bishop’s grave!