Help, Lord, for men of vir­tue fail,
Religion loses ground,
The sons of vio­lence pre­vail,
And trea­cher­ies abound.

Their oaths and pro­mis­es they break,
Yet act the flat­ter­er’s part;
With fair de­ceit­ful lips they speak,
And with a dou­ble heart.

If we re­prove some hate­ful lie,
How is their fu­ry stirred!
Are not our lips our own? they cry;
And who shall be our Lord?

Scoffers ap­pear on every side,
Where a vile race of men
Is raised to seats of pow­er and pride,
And bears the sword in vain.

Lord, when ini­qui­ties abound,
And blas­phe­my grows bold;
When faith is hard­ly to be found,
And love is wax­ing cold;

Is not Thy cha­ri­ot has­ten­ing on?
Hast Thou not giv’n this sign?
May we not trust and live up­on
A pro­mise so di­vine?

Yes, sa­ith the Lord, now will I rise,
And make op­press­ors flee;
I shall ap­pear to their sur­prise,
And set My ser­vants free.

Thy Word, like sil­ver se­ven times tried,
Through ages shall en­dure;
The men that in Thy truth con­fide
Shall find the pro­mise sure.