Three figures cross the threshold now (DCM)

1.
Three figures cross the threshold now,
as once at Mamre’s door;
the hush that folds our island fields
grows thin with myth once more.
The curlew keens across the dusk,
the wren keeps watch nearby;
creation leans in close to hear
the footsteps passing by.

2.
Our laughter trembles into hope,
like Sarah’s startled cry;
for barren places bloom again
when promise draws us nigh.
The hare that stirs the morning grass,
the fox in twilight’s gleam,
remind us how Your quiet grace
moves deeper than we dream.

3.
Through suffering You kindle hope,
through weakness, steadfast love;
as Paul once wrote, Your peace descends
like soft light from above.
The swan that glides on silent lakes,
the seal along the shore,
become the signs that courage grows
where hearts are bruised and sore.

4.
You walk the fields where labourers few
still hear Your gentle call;
and send us out to heal and bless
the weary and the small.
The salmon in its ancient run,
the rooks in circling flight,
teach us to follow where You lead
through shadow into light.

5.
So teach our hearts to trust Your word
as Abraham believed;
to lift our songs of gratitude
for mercies long received.
For in the thinness of this world,
in hearth‑fire, well, and hill,
Your promise threads through all we are—
Your wandering people still.

Hymn information 

First line: Three figures cross the threshold now
Text: Michael McFarland Campbell
Metre: DCM
Tune: Kingsfold, Resignation, Third Mode Melody

© 2026 Michael McFarland Campbell. Permission granted for local church use with attribution. Not for commercial reproduction without permission.

Finding Sanctuary in the Details: A Reflection on Hospitality

Most of the time, our modern world is simply too loud. The constant rush, the bright noise of public debates, and the sharp, unpredictable tensions in Northern Ireland this past week can leave us feeling completely overwhelmed, as if the volume of life has been turned up too high. When the human world becomes hostile and chaotic, our natural instinct is to retreat, to look for a place where the air is still and our minds can rest.

This past Tuesday, on the Feast of St Columba, I went looking for that stillness. I stood by the waters of St Columcille’s Well in Durrow and walked among the high stones of Clonmacnoise. There, where the Shannon flows and the ancient trees grow tall, you can still feel what our ancestors called a “thin place”—a landscape where the heavy noise of the world drops away, and we can perceive a quieter, deeper reality underneath.

Columba himself was Ireland’s great wanderer and exile, a man who knew the ache of leaving home and being a stranger on a distant shore. Yet, he was also a saint who possessed an intense, quiet devotion to the smallest details of creation, famously protecting and caring for a crane that landed near his monastery.

That ancient monastic spirit teaches us that true hospitality is a sacred duty. It is the quiet commitment to ensuring that the person standing next to us feels safe. It means lowering our collective defenses, regulating our anxieties, and refusing to let fear dictate how we treat the unfamiliar—whether that unfamiliarity is a person from a different shore, or simply a neighbour who experiences the world differently than we do.

The hymn published today, “Three Figures Cross the Threshold Now,” was born out of those quiet spaces in Durrow and Clonmacnoise. When human spaces feel chaotic or unwelcoming, it is often the steady, precise details of creation that ground us.

The text intentionally looks away from loud human arguments to notice the quiet patterns of our local landscape. The sharp keen of the curlew at dusk, the silent glide of a swan on a lake, the alert watchfulness of the wren, and the ancient run of the salmon—these are not merely background scenery. To a mind seeking quiet, these details are everything. They are signs that God’s grace moves in steady, gentle patterns far deeper than the noise of the headlines.

This hymn reminds us that the Lord does not usually demand our attention through the loud or the aggressive. Instead, as Saint Paul reminds us, peace descends like soft light. God is found where Columba found Him—in the quiet, local spaces of the hearth-fire, the well, and the hill.

Whether you arrive at church this week feeling entirely at home, or whether you feel a bit like a weary stranger trying to navigate a world that wasn’t quite built for you, our liturgy is a sanctuary. We are all a wandering people, and we are invited to drop our defences, notice the quiet graces around us, and learn to be a safe harbour for one another.

Inspired by the readings appointed for this Sunday:
Genesis 18:1–15 (21:1–7)
Psalm 116:1, 10-17
Romans 5:1–8
Matthew 9:35–10:8 (9–23)