How vain­ly do the hea­then strive
To fal­si­fy our Mas­ter’s word,
Who teach us that we may god­ly live
Yet ne­ver suf­fer for our Lord;
In an­cient times the fact al­low,
But say, the world is Chris­tian now.

Christian the world of drunk­ards is,
The world of whore­mon­gers and thieves,
The slaves of foul and fair ex­cess;
Whoe’er the Chris­tian rite re­ceives,
Led from the font at Sa­tan’s will,
Haters of Christ, and Chris­tians still.

The de­vil­ish, and the sen­su­al crowd,
Who as brute beasts their lusts ob­ey,
Lovers of plea­sure more than God,
Who dance, and curse, and fight and play,
Monsters of vice, our na­ture’s shame,
All hell as­sumes the Chris­tian name.

Yet still when An­ti­christ pre­vails,
And Sa­tan sits in Mo­ses’ chair,
The Gos­pel truths are idle tales,
No cross, no Ho­ly Ghost is there,
The hea­then world will Chris­tian seem,
And bid us take the rule from them.

The tem­ple of the Lord are we,
(The sy­na­gogue of Sa­tan cry)
We need not per­se­cut­ed be
Or cru­el­ly our­selves de­ny:
Come see, ye fools, who sigh and grieve,
How much at ease we Chris­tians live.

We are the men—of wealth and state,
Of pomp, and fa­shion­able ease,
Honor, and pow­er, and plea­sure wait
The silk­en sons of dow­ny peace;
And lo! we glide se­cure and ev­en
Down a broad flow­ery way—to Hea­ven.

While house to house, and field to field,
And liv­ing we to liv­ing join
The gaz­ing crowd ob­ei­sance yield
And praise the slick and smooth di­vine
Who saves them all the mad­man’s care,
The drud­ge­ry of faith, and pray­er.

No fan­ci­ful en­thu­si­asts we
To look for in­spi­ra­tion here,
To dream from sin to be set free
Or hope to feel the Spir­it near,
Or know our sins on earth for­giv­en,
Or mad­ly give up all for Hea­ven!