Arise, my gra­cious God,
And make the wick­ed flee;
They are but Thy chas­tis­ing rod,
To drive Thy saints to Thee.

Behold, the sin­ner dies,
His haugh­ty words are vain;
Here in this life his plea­sure lies,
And all be­yond is pain.

Then let his pride ad­vance,
And boast of all his store;
The Lord is my in­her­it­ance,
My soul can wish no more.

I shall be­hold the face
Of my for­giv­ing God;
And stand com­plete in right­eous­ness,
Washed in my Sav­ior’s blood.

There’s a new heav’n be­gun,
When I awake from death,
Dressed in the like­ness of Thy Son,
And draw im­mor­tal breath.