Why doth the man of rich­es grow
To in­so­lence and pride,
To see his wealth and hon­ors flow
With ev­ery ris­ing tide?

Why doth he treat the poor with scorn,
Made of the self-same clay,
And boast as though his flesh was born
Of bet­ter dust than they?

Not all his trea­sures can pro­cure
His soul a short re­prieve,
Redeem from death one guil­ty hour,
Or make his bro­ther live.

Life is a bless­ing can’t be sold,
The ran­som is too high;
Justice will ne’er be bribed with gold,
That man may ne­ver die.

He sees the brut­ish and the wise,
The ti­mor­ous and the brave,
Quit their pos­ses­sions, close their eyes,
And hast­en to the grave.

Yet ’tis his in­ward thought and pride,
My house shall ev­er stand
And that my name may long ab­ide,
I’ll give it to my land.

Vain are his thoughts, his hopes are lost,
How soon his me­mo­ry dies!
His name is writ­ten in the dust
Where his own car­cass lies.

This is the fol­ly of their way;
And yet their sons, as vain,
Approve the words their fa­thers say,
And act their works again.

Men void of wis­dom and of grace,
If hon­or raise them high,
Live like the beast, a thought­less race,
And like the beast they die.

Laid in the grave like sil­ly sheep,
Death feeds up­on them there,
Till the last trum­pet break their sleep
In ter­ror and des­pair.