1 In vain, O Man of lawless Might,
thou boast'st thyself in Ill;
Since God, the God in whom I trust,
vouchsafes his Favour still.
2 Thy wicked Tongue does sland'rous Tales
And, sharper than a Razor set,
it wounds with treach'rous Lyes.
3,4 Thy Thoughts are more on Ill, than Good,
on Lyes, than Truth, employ'd;
Thy Tongue delights in Words by which
the Guiltless are destroy'd.
5 God shall for ever blast thy Hopes,
and snatch thee soon away;
Nor in thy Dwelling-place permit,
nor in the World, to stay.
6 The Just, with pious Fear shall see
the Downfal of thy Pride;
And at thy sudden Ruin laugh,
and thus thy Fall deride:
7 "See there the Man that haughty was,
"who proudly God defy'd,
"who trusted in his Wealth, and still
"on wicked Arts rely'd."
8 But I am like those Olive-plants
that shade God's Temple round;
And hope with his indulgent Grace
to be for ever crown'd.
9 So shall my Soul with Praise, O God,
extol thy wond'rous Love;
And on thy Name with Patience wait;
for this thy Saints approve.