1 Why should the haughty hero boast,
His vengeful arm, his warlike host?
While blood defiles his cruel hand,
And desolation wastes the land.
2 He joys to hear the captive's cry,
The widow's groan, the orphan's sigh;
And when the wearied sword would spare,
His falshood spreads the fatal snare.
3 He triumphs in the deeds of wrong,
And arms with rage his impious tongue;
With pride proclaims his dreadful pow'r,
And b ids the trembling world adore.
4 But God beholds, and with a frown,
Casts to the dust his honours down;
The righteous freed, their hopes recal,
And hail the proud oppressors fall.
5 How low th' insulting tyrant lies,
Who dar'd th' eternal pow'r despise;
And vainly deem'd with envious joy,
His arm almighty to destroy.
6 We praise the Lord, who heard our cries,
And sent salvation from the skies;
The saints, who saw our mournful days,
Shall join our grateful songs of praise.
Part II.
7 While unbelievers make their boast,
And heav'nly grace despise;
In their own arm they put their trust,
And fill their mouths with lies;
8 But like a cultur'd olive grow,
Dress' in immortal green,
Thy children blooming in thy love,
Amid thy courts are seen.
9 On thine eternal grace, O Lord,
Our souls shall rest secure;
And all who trust thy holy word,
Shall find salvation sure.
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