1 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!
2 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.
3 There the dark earth and dismal shade Shall clasp their naked bodies round; That flesh, so delicately fed, Lies cold, and moulders in the ground.
4 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.
5 His honours perish in the dust, And pomp and beauty, birth and blood: That glorious day exalts the just To full dominion o'er the proud.
6 My Saviour 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.