All praise to thee, Tsathoggua, dark lord of darksome realms! Before thine ebon throne lost wraiths bewail their fate with many an echoing groan and wander sightless through the frightful glooms of sub-Eiglophian caves. Thou didst reward their unrepented insolence displayed before thy toadlike templed eidolons, with monstrous dooms. From them thy vengeance was not stayed, nor shall their horrid punishments abate ‘till all the peaks of high Voormithadreth are ground to grit in icy eschatons.

Oh lord of foulsome life and fearsome death, to thee our fealty repays our gift of necromantic arts with offerings of red and pulsing hearts given in thanks on thine ensanguined alter; and, to avenge all crass impiety, our serpent-venomed dirks will never falter.

Now hear our plea, O Lord of black encaverned spaces, whose jet-dark orbs, though night-enmired yet see into all secret subterranean places, and whose black-furred bat-supple ears detect the faintest sound of all who plot in chambers underground: Fulfill our hopes allay our direst fears. Grant us the gift of swift nocturnal stealth: Reveal to us each hidden jeweled hoard of kingly wealth; and most of all Dark Lord, possess our foes with terrors thanatopic and draw their shrieking souls down from the light into eternal night to pine for aye in silence nyctalopic.

From the Book of Eibon, Psalms of the Silent. Translated by Richard L. Tierney.