Saints | Ecclesiasticus 39:1-10 | Ps 84 | Romans 13:11-end | Matthew 23:8-12 | 28 August 2026

Across the sands of Hippo’s shore

1.
Across the sands of Hippo’s shore, 
where dawn breaks gold and wide, 
you sought the wisdom prophets knew, 
God’s word your only guide. 
In Scripture’s depths you found the fire 
that wakes the heart to praise; 
a pilgrim mind, aflame with truth, 
to bless the Church’s days.

2.
Like desert deer that thirst for streams, 
your soul cried out for grace; 
till Love, long‑patient, called you home 
and held you in embrace. 
How lovely is the Lord’s abode— 
you sang with joy and fear; 
and found in prayer a dwelling place 
where God is always near.

3.
Now let the night be cast away, 
the day of Christ arise; 
you taught the Church to walk in light 
with clear and watchful eyes. 
No shadowed path of pride or power, 
no self‑exalting claim— 
but humble hearts, in service bound, 
that bear the Saviour’s name.

4.
For we have one true Master, Christ, 
and all are siblings here; 
you shaped your flock with patient care, 
with courage, hope, and cheer. 
Not lordship, but the servant’s way— 
the yoke of love alone; 
and in that grace, the Church found peace 
and Christ’s compassion shone.

5.
From Hippo’s heat to Ireland’s rain, 
your witness travels still; 
in bog and dune, in storm and sun, 
your voice calls hearts to fill 
their days with prayer, their nights with trust, 
their steps with mercy’s art— 
till Christ, our rest, our waking dawn, 
is formed in every heart.

On Seeking Wisdom in the Light and the Rain

Some saints feel distant, wrapped in the dust of history. Augustine doesn’t. His restlessness feels familiar — the kind that hums under the skin on days when the world is too bright, too loud, or too heavy. The hymn you’ve written lets that restlessness breathe. It doesn’t rush to resolve it. It lets the landscape do the slow work.

In North Africa, Augustine learned to listen for God in the heat, in the shimmer of dawn over sand, in the long thirst for meaning. In Ireland, we learn to listen in different weather — in the soft rain that blurs the edges of things, in the bog that remembers every footstep, in the quiet ache of wanting a home for the soul. The hymn holds both places together, as if wisdom itself is a kind of migration: from dryness to greening, from searching to belonging.

Ecclesiasticus speaks of the one who “seeks out the wisdom of all the ancients.” Augustine did that, but he also sought the wisdom of his own heart — the part that longed, and doubted, and woke slowly to love. Romans calls us to wake from sleep; Matthew reminds us that the way of Christ is not mastery but service. The hymn gathers these threads and lays them gently before us, not as demands but as invitations.

For neurodivergent souls, this matters. Waking can be slow. Service can be quiet. Wisdom can come in flashes or in long, patient drips like Irish rain. Augustine’s story reminds us that God meets us in the pace we have, not the pace we’re told to keep.

Maybe that’s the gift of this hymn: it lets Augustine be a companion rather than a monument. A fellow pilgrim who learned, at last, that the God he sought in deserts and libraries was already walking beside him — in the heat, in the rain, and in the restless, beautiful mind he carried.

Hymn information

First line: Across the sands of Hippo’s shore
Text: Michael McFarland Campbell
Metre: DCM
Tune:
Theme: Augustine of Hippo (28 August)
Scripture: Ecclesiasticus 39:1-10, Ps 84, Romans 13:11-end, Matthew 23:8-12

© Michael McFarland Campbell. 2026. 
Permission granted for local church or parish use with attribution. Not for commercial reproduction.