1 Why doth the man of riches grow
To insolence and pride,
To see his wealth and honours flow
With every rising tide?
2 [Why doth he treat the poor with scorn,
Made of the self-same clay,
And boast as tho' his flesh was born
Of better dust than they?]
3 Not all his treasures can procure
His soul a short reprieve,
Redeem from death one guilty hour,
Or make his brother live.
4 Eternal life can ne'er be sold,
The ransom is too high;
Justice will ne'er be brib'd with gold,
That man may never die.]
5 He sees the brutish and the wise,
The timorous and the brave,
Quit their possessions, close their eyes,
And hasten to the grave.
6 Yet 'tis his inward thought and pride,
"My house shall ever stand;
"And that my name may long abide,
"I'll give it to my land.
7 Vain are his thoughts, his hopes are lost,
How soon his memory dies!
His name is written in the dust,
Where his own body lies.]
Pause.
8 This is the folly of their way;
And yet their sons as vain
Approve the words their fathers say,
And act their works again.
9 Men void of wisdom and of grace,
Tho' honour raise them high,
Live like the beast, a thoughtless race,
And like the beast they die.
10 [Laid in the grave like silly sheep,
Death triumphs o'er them there,
Till the last trumpet breask their sleep,
And wakes them in despair.
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