One king once struck the Roman yoke, and made his stand by English shore,
He cast the Pope’s bright chain aside, and crowned the Book his nation’s law.
Yet now, beneath the vaulted Dome, where saints once knelt and kings were crowned,
A softer treason stirs the air, where silence mocks the Gospel’s sound.
For Westminster, with silvered tongue, now sells its soul by carbon scale,
And breaks from Canterbury’s hand, to court a Dragon wrapped in veil.
No longer doth the Abbey’s bell ring loud for Christ or common clay,
It tolls instead for Earth alone, as green-clad priests their creed betray.
The altar bends to foreign fire, the thurible swings for stranger gods,
And writs are signed in Eastern ink, where once stood men in English sods.
They trade the Cross for carbon coin, the creed for contracts inked in shame,
The Lamb is weighed in ledger’s ink, and sold beneath a dragon’s name.
O Albion! once flame and flint, thy gospel rang through storm and tide,
Thy fields were sown with martyr’s blood, thy hills with psalms the brave defied.
But now thy bishops kiss the ring of those who chain their folk in night,
And barter faith for fleeting gain, as though the truth could yield to fright.
They dare not speak of sin or soul, for fear it might offend the East,
So Temple bends and Tabard shakes, and Zion starves while Mammon feasts.
Yet still the wind on Sussex downs, and still the wave off Whitby’s shore,
Recall the days when truth stood tall, and Albion bowed her head no more.
And in the vale where chapels sleep, and grass grows green by broken wall,
A voice shall rise from humble homes, and shake the gates of gilded hall.
The Dragon's gift shall turn to ash, the traitor’s silver melt away,
And Albion, with lifted Cross, shall rise anew to break the day.
(By John Shenton)