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The broad-backed hippopotamus
The broad-backed hippopotamus Rests on his belly in the mud; Although he seems so firm to us He is merely flesh and blood.
Flesh-and-blood is weak and frail, Susceptible to nervous shock; While the True Church can never fail For it is based upon a rock.
The hippo's feeble steps may err In compassing material ends, While the True Church need never stir To gather in its dividends.
The 'potamus can never reach The mango on the mango-tree; But fruits of pomegranate and peach Refresh the Church from over sea.
At mating time the hippo's voice Betrays inliexions hoarse and odd, But every week we hear rejoice The Church, at being one with God.
The hippopotamus's day Is passed in sleep; at night he hunts; God works in a mysterious way- The Church can sleep and feed at once.
I saw the 'potamus take wing Ascending from the damp savannas, And quiring angels round him sing The praise of God, in loud hosannas.
Blood of the Lamb shall wash him clean And him shall heavenly arms enfold, Among the saints he shall be seen Performing on a harp of gold.
He shall be washed as white as snow, By all the martyr'd virgins kiss, While the True Church remains below Wrapt in the old miasmal mist.
The large hippopotamus Lies on his stomach in the mud; Even though he appears strong to us He is just flesh and blood.
Flesh and blood are weak and delicate, Easily affected by stress; While the True Church will never fail Because it is founded on a solid rock.
The hippo's weak steps may make mistakes In achieving worldly goals, While the True Church does not need to move To collect its profits.
The hippo cannot reach The mango hanging on the tree; But the fruits of pomegranate and peach Nourish the Church from afar.
During mating season, the hippo's voice Reveals strange and rough sounds, But every week we hear joy From the Church, being united with God.
The hippo spends his days Sleeping; at night he hunts; God operates in mysterious ways— The Church can rest and eat simultaneously.
I saw the hippo take flight Rising from the wet savannas, And singing angels surrounding him Praise God with loud hosannas.
The blood of the Lamb will cleanse him And heavenly arms will embrace him, Among the saints, he will be seen Playing on a golden harp.
He will be made as pure as snow, By the kiss of all the martyr'd virgins, While the True Church stays below Wrapped in the old toxic mist.