1 Ye sons of pride that hate the just
And trample on the poor,
When death has brought you down to dust,
Your pomp shall rise no more.
2 The last great day shall change the scene;
When will that hour appear?
When shall the just revive, and reign
O'er all that scorn'd them here?
3 God will my naked soul receive,
When sep'rate from the flesh;
And break the prison of the grave,
To raise my bones afresh.
4 Heav'n is my everlasting home,
Th' inheritance is sure:
Let men of pride their rage resume,
But I'll repine no more.
Text Information | |
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First Line: | Ye sons of pride that hate the just |
Meter: | C. M. |
Language: | English |
Publication Date: | 1790 |
Scripture: |