Within the broken Vatican The murdered Pope is lying dead.

The soldiers of Valerian Their evil hands are wet and red.

Unarmed, unmoved, St. Laurence waits, His cassock is his only mail.

The troops of Hell have burst the gates, But Christ is Lord, He shall prevail.

They have encompassed him with steel, They spit upon his gentle face, He smiles and bleeds, nor will reveal The Church's hidden treasure-place.

Ah, faithful steward, worthy knight, Well hast thou done. Behold thy fee!

Since thou hast fought the goodly fight A martyr's death is fixed for thee.

St. Laurence, pray for us to bear The faith which glorifies thy name.

St. Laurence, pray for us to share The wounds of Love's consuming flame.