Cromwell, our chief of men, who through a cloud

Not of war only, but detractions rude,

Guided by faith and matchless fortitude,

To peace and truth thy glorious way hast plough’d,

And on the neck of crowned Fortune proud

Hast rear’d God’s trophies, and his work pursu’d,

While Darwen stream with blood of Scots imbru’d,

And Dunbar field, resounds thy praises loud,

And Worcester’s laureate wreath; yet much remains

To conquer still: peace hath her victories

No less renown’d than war. New foes arise

Threat’ning to bind our souls with secular chains:

Help us to save free Conscience from the paw

Of hireling wolves whose gospel is their maw.