1 Why should the haughty hero boast,
His vengeful arm, his warlike host?
While blood defiles his cruel hand,
And desolation wastes the land.
2 He joys to hear the captive's cry,
The widow's groan, the orphan's sigh;
And when the wearied sword would spare,
His falsehood spreads the fatal snare.
3 He triumphs in the deeds of wrong,
And arms with rage his impious tongue;
With pride proclaims his dreadful power,
And b ids the trembling world adore.
4 But God beholds and with a frown,
Casts to the dust his honours down;
The righteous freed, their hopes recal,
And hail the proud oppressors fall.
5 How low th' insulting tyrant lies,
Who dared th' eternal Power despise;
And vainly deem'd with envious joy,
His arm almighty to destroy.
6 We praise the Lord, who heard our cries,
And sent salvation from the skies;
The saints, who saw our mournful days,
Shall join our grateful songs of praise.
Source: Doctor Watts's Imitation of the Psalms of David (4th ed.) #97b