The Sybils were ancient pagan mystics that supposedly foretold the future, albeit with drugs and trances. Why would a mass for the dead put David and A Sybil together?
Oh I know! The pagan mystics and philosophers were also sources of divine revelation per the Catholic Church. Right.
Fascinating. A Roman Catholic mass unites David with a pagan mystic, a Sybil. The things we learn on the Religion Forum...
From Wikipedia...
Dies Irae (Day of Wrath) is a famous thirteenth century Latin hymn thought to be written by Thomas of Celano...The poem describes the day of judgment, the last trumpet summoning souls before the throne of God, where the saved will be delivered and the unsaved cast into eternal flames. The hymn is best known from its use as a sequence in the Roman Catholic Requiem Mass.
That Day Of Wrath, that dreadful day,
When heaven and earth shall pass away,
Both David and the Sibyl say.
What terror then shall us befall,
When lo, the Judge’s steps appall,
About to sift the deeds of all.
The mighty trumpet’s marvellous tone
Shall pierce through each sepulchral stone
And summon all before the throne.
Now Death and Nature in amaze
Behold the Lord His creatures raise,
To meet the Judge’s awful gaze.
The books are opened, that the dead
May have their doom from waht is read,
The record of our conscience dread.
The Lord of judgment sits Him down,
And every secret thing makes known;
No crime escapes His vengeful frown.
Ah, how shall I that day endure?
What partron’s friendly voice secure,
When scarce the just themselves are sure?
O King of dreadful majesty,
Who grantest grace and mercy free,
Grant mercy now and grace to me.
Good Lord, ’twas for my sinful sake,
That Thou our suffering nature didst take;
Then do not now my soul forsake.
In weariness Thy sheep was sought;
Upon the Cross His life was bought;
Alas, if all in vain were wrought.
O just avenging Judge, I pray,
For pity take my sins away,
Before the great accounting-day.
I groan beneath the guilt, which Thou
Canst read upon my blushing brow;
But spare, O God, Thy suppliant now.
Thou who didst Mary’s sins unbind,
And mercy for the robber find,
Dost filled with hope my anxious mind.
My feeble prayers can make no claim,
Yet, gracious Lord, for Thy great Name,
Redeem me from the quenchless flame.
At Thy right hand, give me a place
Among Thy sheep, a child of grace,
Far from the goats’ accursed race.
Yea, when Thy justly kindled ire
Shall sinners hurl to endless fire,
Oh, call me to Thy chosen choir.
In suppliant prayer I prostrate bend,
My contrite heart like ashes rend,
Regard, O Lord, my latter end.
Oh, on that day, that tearful day,
When man to judgment wakes from clay,
Be thou the trembling sinner’s stay,
And spare him, God, we humbly pray.
Yea, grant to all, O Saviour Blest,
Who die in Thee, the Saints’ sweet rest
SING IT!
And all the people said: "EEK, the Catholics are coming! the Catholics are coming!" apparently. "Amen" would have been sufficient.