My Soul Abjure The Accursed Throng
My soul, abjure th’ accursed throng,
Whose prosp’ring wealth increases fast
By fraud, by violence, and wrong,
Still thriving for the thunder’s blast.
If high or low my station be,
Of noble or ignoble name,
By uncorrupted honesty
Thy blessing, Lord, I’d humbly claim.
Enrich’d with that, no want I’ll fear,
Thy providence shall be my trust;
Thou wilt provide my portion here,
Thou friend and guardian of the just.
O may I, with sincere delight,
To all the task of duty pay;
Tender of every social right,
Obedient to thy righteous sway.
Such virtue thou wilt not forget,
In worlds where every virtue shares
A fit reward, tho’ not of debt,
But what thy boundless grace prepares.