29 SEPTEMBER 1990, Page 38

Holy, Holy, Holy

Clear air, clear water, spires above the meadows. Four centuries away from gigs and demos, rapt music filled the chancels and the naves and flowed like thermals past the weather vanes.

In sooty boroughs hymns began to march, to edify, to comfort or to charm — sustaining wills intent on paradise, pushing all misbegotten doubts aside.

Today the striding rhythms are bearing sieges by bouncy ones for yet another Jesus.

The pillars feel a huge atomic lattice quake in the trendy vibes, and long for Tallis.