1 Ye sons of pride, that hate the just, And trample on the poor, When death has brought you down to dust, Your pomp shall rise no more,
2 The last great day shall change the scene; When will that hour appear? When shall the just revive, and reign O'er all that scorn'd them here?
3 God will my naked soul receive, When sep'rate from the flesh; And break the prison of the grave To raise my bones afresh.
4 Heaven is my everlasting home, Th' inheritance is sure; Let men of pride their rage resume, But I'll repine no more.