Glendalough Round Tower - The Monastic City in Song

Glendalough Round Tower - The Monastic City

In Glendalough where the old stones stand,
A tower rises from Ireland’s land,
High through the rain, through the mountain air,
A bell once called the monks to prayer.

Its doorway waits above the ground,
Where ladders rose without a sound,
Not built for pride, not built for fame,
But to lift the valley toward God’s name.

And the stones remember,
And the valley hears,
The prayer of the monks
Through a thousand years.

Glendalough, Glendalough, tower of stone,
Call the heart that walks alone,
By cross and grave, by rain and tree,
Ireland’s old prayer still speaks to me.

Glendalough, Glendalough, bell in the sky,
Over the valley where the lake winds sigh,
From Kevin’s name to the mountain flame,
The stones still whisper their holy name.

Through the ancient Gateway pilgrims came,
Leaving the road and the world’s loud claim,
By the cross-marked Sanctuary Stone,
The tired soul was not alone.

Pass the stone, enter peace,
Let the noise of the journey cease,
For not every shelter has walls alone,
Some are held by prayer and stone.

And the gate still whispers,
And the old paths know,
Where the feet of the pilgrims
Once moved slow.

Glendalough, Glendalough, tower of stone,
Call the heart that walks alone,
By cross and grave, by rain and tree,
Ireland’s old prayer still speaks to me.

Glendalough, Glendalough, bell in the sky,
Over the valley where the lake winds sigh,
From Kevin’s name to the mountain flame,
The stones still whisper their holy name.

The Cathedral walls are open wide,
With roofless prayer beneath the sky,
St Kevin’s Cross stands worn and still,
Where time walks softly down the hill.

The graveyard keeps the names and none,
The known, the hidden, every one,
Generations rest below,
Where mountain winds and lake mists go.

The little church they call the Kitchen
Holds its tower like a chimney’s vision,
But no hearth fire is burning there,
Only stone and ancient prayer.

Round the tower the old bells rang,
And Irish psalms and Scriptures sang,
In Latin lines and Gaelic hands,
Wisdom travelled through these lands.

This was no empty place of stone,
But a city where the soul was known,
Houses, fields, and chapel ground,
Work and worship woven round.

No spell is needed in this place,
The Cross has left its mark of grace,
And every heart that comes in pain
May hear the old prayer rise again.

So let the tower stand in rain,
Let the old bell call again,
Not with noise, and not with pride,
But with mercy deep inside.

Glendalough, Glendalough, tower of stone,
Call the heart that walks alone,
By cross and grave, by rain and tree,
Ireland’s old prayer still speaks to me.

Glendalough, Glendalough, bell in the sky,
Over the valley where the lake winds sigh,
From Kevin’s name to the mountain flame,
The stones still whisper their holy name.

Glendalough, Glendalough, hearts awake,
Through every road and field and lake,
From the tower door to the open sky,
Your prayer still rises over Ireland high.

By bell and stone, through prayer and flame,
Glendalough remembers its holy name.