It's amazing the things you can find on the net...
  • Against Sappy Hymns of Unsound Theology

    Awake from your slumber!
    Arise from your sleep!
    The homily's over!
    It wasn't too deep!
    -On Mediocre Liturgy

    Dies Irae
    "Who says that poets can't be prophetic? I found these alternative verses of the Dies Irae in an old hymnal. They're obviously intended for Roman Catholics offered the Gather and Worship II hymnals and songs like "On Eagles' Wings" (Fr. Jan Michael Joncas), but from what I've heard of the suffering of my Protestant brethren, I think their appeal can be truly ecumenical."
    -Anthony Esolen

    Day of wrath, O day of mourning!
    Earth to ashes now returning!
    Gather, by the millions burning!
    Cleansed at last by cataclysm
    Butchered rhyme and battered rhythm,
    Neo-pagan narcissism!
    On that day, Lord, when Thou comest,
    And our dreadful hymnals thumbest,
    Smite the ugliest and dumbest.
    Smite them, Lord, yet of Thy pity
    Take their songsters to Thy city:
    Even Haugen, Haas, and Schutte.
    Spare them on the stern condition
    That they feel a true contrition
    For the Worship III edition.
    Doom them not to loss and ruin
    While the darker storm is brewing!
    They knew not what they were doing.
    On that day when Palestrina
    Dare not touch a Celestina,
    What will Sister Ballerina?
    With thine eyes that pierce like lances
    Still her silly heathen dances
    And her flirting with Saint Francis.
    Purge us of the prim and prissy,
    Ditties fit for Meg or Missy,
    Not for Francis, but a sissy.
    Cantors who thought nothing grander
    Than a sheaf of propaganda
    Writ like office memoranda,
    Raise them to Thy room to bide in
    Where their hearts and ears may widen
    To the strains of Bach and Haydn.
    Let their hearts within them falter,
    Hearing, as they near Thine altar,
    Seraphs sing the Scottish Psalter.
    Seize those devils set to pen a
    Hymnal neutered of its men-ah.
    Fling 'em back to black Gehenna!
    Fling them one and all to mangle
    Their pronominals, and wrangle
    Lest a participle dangle!
    Who held manhood in derision.
    Preaching double circumcision.
    Suffer now their own revision.
    Though the songs of Hell are naughty.
    None by Handel or Scarlatti,
    At the least they'll have castrati.
    Pitch, O Lord, the bald and raucous
    Slogans of a leftist caucus
    Down to Sheol, or Secaucus!
    Save their singers, though: restore 'em
    To a silent sweet decorum,
    Per saecula saeculorum.
    Various are the throngs of heaven:
    Some were lump, and some were leaven.
    Some as lame as six and seven.
    When the demons hear thy curses.
    And this world's dense fog disperses.
    Heal the hobbled - not their verses.
    Hush me, too, Lord, when I grumble:
    In Thy mercy make me humble.
    Lest On Turkey's Wings I tumble.
    Though Haugen sing "Hosea" evermore.
    Save me I pray - but keep me near the door.

    A Church Musician's Lament