Ely Cathedral

Anaemic women, stupidly dressed and shod
In squeaky shoes, thump down the nave to laud an expurgated God.

Bunches of lights reflect upon the pavement where
The twenty benches stop, and through the close, smelled-over air

Gaunt arches push up their whited stones,
And cover the sparse worshippers with dead men's bones.

Behind his shambling choristers, with flattened feet
And red-flapped hood, the Bishop walks, complete
In old, frayed ceremonial. The organ wheezes
A mouldy psalm-tune, and a verger sneezes.

But the great Cathedral spears into the sky
Shouting for joy.

What is the red-flapped Bishop praying for, by the by?