Why do the proud in­sult the poor,
And boast the large es­tates they have?
How vain are riche­s to se­cure
Their haugh­ty own­ers from the grave!

They can’t re­deem one hour from death,
With all the wealth in which they trust;
Nor give a dy­ing bro­ther breath,
When God com­mands him down to dust.

There the dark earth and dis­mal shade
Shall clasp their nak­ed bodies round;
That flesh, so de­li­cate­ly fed,
Lies cold and mol­ders in the ground.

Like thought­less sheep the sin­ner dies,
Laid in the grave for worms to eat;
The saints shall in the morn­ing rise,
And find th’op­press­or at their feet.

His hon­ors per­ish in the dust,
And pomp and beau­ty, birth and blood:
That glo­ri­ous day ex­alts the just
To full do­min­ion o’er the proud.

My Sav­ior shall my life re­store,
And raise me from my dark ab­ode;
My flesh and soul shall part no more,
But dwell for ev­er near my God.