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 ploughed,
And on the neck of crowned
Fortune proud
Hast reared God's
trophies, and his work pursued,
While Darwen stream with blood of Scots imbrued,
And Dunbar field, resounds thy praises loud,
And Worcester's laureate
wreath; yet much remains
To conquer still: peace hath
her victories
No less renowned than war. New
foes arise
Threatening to bind our souls with secular chains:
Help us to
save free conscience from the paw
Of hireling wolves whose
gospel is their maw.
