Written in a rage of frustration on the back of a parish bulletin during a particularly banal platitude laden sermon in a Scottish cathedral six years ago.

Oh praise ye the Lord ye men of all lands
In joyful accord at His pierced hands
In low obeisance at His wounded feet
Receive ye His mercies with penitence sweet.
O praise ye the Lord ye priests of the Word
And smite with His ban all those who have erred
Dispense ye His mysteries with trembling and fear
And wring from each black soul a penitent tear.
O praise ye the Lord ye God-fearing kings
And vanquish the foe with His warlike hymns
Subdue to the Gospel the ends of the Earth
Protect ye the altar, defend ye the hearth.
Oh praise ye the Lord ye armies of God
And put to the sword the land where He trod
Reduce to bleak ruins the walls of the foe
And carry the cross wheresoe’r ye shall go.
Oh praise ye the Lord great Emperor of Rome
Cast thy golden crown before His bright throne
St Peter’s successor commandeth thy knee
O champion of Christendom and lord of the free.