To You, oh Blesséd Spirit

Oh rise and shine the Blesséd Spirit!

For in Your name we toll the bells,

And echoes of our rockets

Now clear the vile, but close lands

Metallic shells of those rockets

Fall from the Sky like drops of rain.

Oh Lord, may suff’ring never cease

And grant them all the pain!

The sound, now, of missile blasts

Is filling up the dusty air;

So that the Eastern disbelievers may

all in the flesh of our God beware

As hurricanes of wild fire

engulf the dirty sort

For now it is but late

To whine and to consort

May all of those cement stones

Be put to dust and lifeless sand

For but tomorrow we will see

The Holy Promised Land.