The story heavily features the evening hymn “All praise to Thee, my God, this night” (also known as “Glory to Thee, my God, this night”), ending with Thomas Ken's famous Doxology. Strictly speaking, although Ken’s hymn was written in 1674, before William’s landing in 1688, the hymn would not have been widely known. However, I hope the reader can forgive this small anachronism.
Dean Annesley and the Hope of Freedom
A story of Exeter Cathedral
Dean Annesley stood beneath the great Norman arches of Exeter Cathedral, the last notes of “All praise to Thee, my God, this night “drifting upward into the soaring vaulting. The choirboys’ voices faded like candle‑smoke, leaving the vast space trembling with the memory of harmony. Outside, November winds pressed against the ancient stones, harbingers of the news from the coast, that William of Orange had arrived with his army in Devon, come to deliver England from the tyranny of King James II. It was a kingdom poised on the edge of change.
He remained in his stall long after the congregation had gone, his hands resting on the worn oak, his breath clouding faintly in the cold. The candles along the choir flickered, casting long shadows across the tombs of bishops and canons. Tomorrow, if the whispers were true, William of Orange would ride into Exeter, and bring deliverance.
Annesley closed his eyes. Only months earlier he had stood in this very place, refusing to read King James II’s Declaration of Indulgence, a command that violated both law and conscience. He had felt the weight of the Crown pressing upon him, the threat of dismissal, imprisonment, disgrace. Yet he had resisted. Not for rebellion’s sake, but for the Anglican settlement, he had sworn to uphold: Scripture, reason, and the ordered tradition that Richard Hooker had defended so nobly. Annesley had declared he would rather be hanged at the doors of his cathedral than that the declaration should be read there.
Hooker was born in Heavitree, not far from Exeter. In his “Ecclesiastical Polity”, he had argued that church governance and the laws of the realm must be bound by redeemed human reason and the rule of law, rather than the arbitrary, absolute whims of a monarch. The laws protecting the national church were sacred and could not be single-handedly overwritten by royal decree. And yet King James II had bypassed Parliament to alter religious laws, and violated this. Although nearly a hundred years separated Annesley and Hooker, he stood firmly on the foundations laid down by Hooker during the Elizabethan settlement.
How often had he drawn strength from Hooker’s calm, measured prose, written in an age no less turbulent than his own. Hooker had argued that the Church of England was neither Rome nor Geneva, but a middle way shaped by charity, learning, and the quiet confidence that truth need not shout to be heard.
Teach me to live, that I may dread
The grave as little as my bed…
The hymn’s words lingered in his mind. Tonight they felt less like poetry and more like a prayer for a nation. A verger passed silently through the choir, gathering books. “A strange evening, Dean,” he murmured. “The city is restless. Inns full, many whispering in corners. They say the Prince is near.” Annesley nodded. “England has waited long for deliverance. But deliverance must come with order, not chaos.”
He rose and walked slowly down the nave. The great west window glowed faintly with the last light of day, caught in a perpetual sunrise, a patchwork of fragments of saints and prophets and clear glass, all that remained after the Puritan soldiers had destroyed it. Beneath them, the stones bore the marks of centuries: the scars of the Civil War, the soot of old candles, the footsteps of pilgrims who had prayed for kings, for peace, for mercy. He wondered what tomorrow’s pilgrims would pray for. He knew many of the Cathedral’s cathedral's canons and prebendaries were terrified. Should they stay, and face treason if William failed?
At the crossing Annesley paused, listening to the cathedral breathe. To the side of him, the massive, decorative tin organ pipes loomed above him like a forest of silver. He imagined the sound that would fill the space when the news finally broke , when William’s banner was raised in the city, when the people poured into the Close, when hope, long suppressed, found its voice again.
Yet hope alone was not enough. England needed steadiness. England needed the very thing Hooker had given her: a Church rooted deeply enough to withstand the storms of kings.
O may my soul on Thee repose…
He whispered the line into the stillness.
Outside, a bell tolled the hour. The wind shifted, carrying with it the distant sound of horses on the London road. And on that road was Bishop Lamplugh, who had delivered a fiery public address urging the people of his diocese to stay fiercely loyal to the Catholic King James II before fleeing three days before to support King James II in London.
Annesley drew his cloak around him and stepped into the nave’s shadowed length. Tomorrow, he thought, the Prince would come. And when he did, Exeter Cathedral, this house of prayer, this witness to England’s conscience, would stand ready, just as it always had. And he recalled as a prayer those words of Bishop Thomas Ken, ending that great evening hymn:
Praise God, from whom all blessings flow;
Praise Him, all creatures here below;
Praise Him above, ye heavenly host;
Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.
Dean Annesley and the Hope of Freedom
A story of Exeter Cathedral
Dean Annesley stood beneath the great Norman arches of Exeter Cathedral, the last notes of “All praise to Thee, my God, this night “drifting upward into the soaring vaulting. The choirboys’ voices faded like candle‑smoke, leaving the vast space trembling with the memory of harmony. Outside, November winds pressed against the ancient stones, harbingers of the news from the coast, that William of Orange had arrived with his army in Devon, come to deliver England from the tyranny of King James II. It was a kingdom poised on the edge of change.
He remained in his stall long after the congregation had gone, his hands resting on the worn oak, his breath clouding faintly in the cold. The candles along the choir flickered, casting long shadows across the tombs of bishops and canons. Tomorrow, if the whispers were true, William of Orange would ride into Exeter, and bring deliverance.
Annesley closed his eyes. Only months earlier he had stood in this very place, refusing to read King James II’s Declaration of Indulgence, a command that violated both law and conscience. He had felt the weight of the Crown pressing upon him, the threat of dismissal, imprisonment, disgrace. Yet he had resisted. Not for rebellion’s sake, but for the Anglican settlement, he had sworn to uphold: Scripture, reason, and the ordered tradition that Richard Hooker had defended so nobly. Annesley had declared he would rather be hanged at the doors of his cathedral than that the declaration should be read there.
Hooker was born in Heavitree, not far from Exeter. In his “Ecclesiastical Polity”, he had argued that church governance and the laws of the realm must be bound by redeemed human reason and the rule of law, rather than the arbitrary, absolute whims of a monarch. The laws protecting the national church were sacred and could not be single-handedly overwritten by royal decree. And yet King James II had bypassed Parliament to alter religious laws, and violated this. Although nearly a hundred years separated Annesley and Hooker, he stood firmly on the foundations laid down by Hooker during the Elizabethan settlement.
How often had he drawn strength from Hooker’s calm, measured prose, written in an age no less turbulent than his own. Hooker had argued that the Church of England was neither Rome nor Geneva, but a middle way shaped by charity, learning, and the quiet confidence that truth need not shout to be heard.
Teach me to live, that I may dread
The grave as little as my bed…
The hymn’s words lingered in his mind. Tonight they felt less like poetry and more like a prayer for a nation. A verger passed silently through the choir, gathering books. “A strange evening, Dean,” he murmured. “The city is restless. Inns full, many whispering in corners. They say the Prince is near.” Annesley nodded. “England has waited long for deliverance. But deliverance must come with order, not chaos.”
He rose and walked slowly down the nave. The great west window glowed faintly with the last light of day, caught in a perpetual sunrise, a patchwork of fragments of saints and prophets and clear glass, all that remained after the Puritan soldiers had destroyed it. Beneath them, the stones bore the marks of centuries: the scars of the Civil War, the soot of old candles, the footsteps of pilgrims who had prayed for kings, for peace, for mercy. He wondered what tomorrow’s pilgrims would pray for. He knew many of the Cathedral’s cathedral's canons and prebendaries were terrified. Should they stay, and face treason if William failed?
At the crossing Annesley paused, listening to the cathedral breathe. To the side of him, the massive, decorative tin organ pipes loomed above him like a forest of silver. He imagined the sound that would fill the space when the news finally broke , when William’s banner was raised in the city, when the people poured into the Close, when hope, long suppressed, found its voice again.
Yet hope alone was not enough. England needed steadiness. England needed the very thing Hooker had given her: a Church rooted deeply enough to withstand the storms of kings.
O may my soul on Thee repose…
He whispered the line into the stillness.
Outside, a bell tolled the hour. The wind shifted, carrying with it the distant sound of horses on the London road. And on that road was Bishop Lamplugh, who had delivered a fiery public address urging the people of his diocese to stay fiercely loyal to the Catholic King James II before fleeing three days before to support King James II in London.
Annesley drew his cloak around him and stepped into the nave’s shadowed length. Tomorrow, he thought, the Prince would come. And when he did, Exeter Cathedral, this house of prayer, this witness to England’s conscience, would stand ready, just as it always had. And he recalled as a prayer those words of Bishop Thomas Ken, ending that great evening hymn:
Praise God, from whom all blessings flow;
Praise Him, all creatures here below;
Praise Him above, ye heavenly host;
Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.