A forty-acre block of land
On Bucks and Oxon border
Ascending from a river vale, 
Is known as Beersheba.

Pilgrims came from far and wide
Three hundred years ago,
To camp around this pastoral hill,
But nobody would know

Save for the name they gave this place 
Now home to hare and pheasant, 
Where barley waves in summer’s breeze;
They called this field Mount Pleasant.

I’ve ploughed these furrows, planted seed,
And harvested my corn,
And often marvelled at the power 
To which those souls were drawn.

I’ve climbed the hill to see below
The village clear in view,
Well known to them as Sion,
Their Holy rendezvous.

They came to hear John Mason preach,
Their Christian faith to nourish,
They sang the hymns he’d written here
In Water Stratford parish.

St. Giles stands like a rock today,
The church his followers knew,
Where charismatic passion ruled
In pulpit, street and pew.

No idle whim their presence here,
No fad nor strange caprice;
But t’was ordained from heaven above:
May their spirits rest in peace.