The Wicked Fools Must Sure Suppose Tate
The wicked fools must sure suppose,
That God is but a name:
This gross mistake their practice shows,
Since virtue all disclaim.
The Lord look’d down from heav’n’s high tow’r,
The sons of men to view,
To see if any own’d his pow’r,
Or truth or justice knew.
But all he saw were backward gone,
Degen’rate grown and base;
None for religion car’d, not one
Of all the sinful race.
But are those workers of deceit
So dull and senseless grown,
That they, like bread my people eat,
And God’s just pow’r disown?
Their causeless fears shall strangely grow;
And they, despis’d of God,
Shall soon be soil’d: his hands shall throw
Their shatter’d bones abroad.
Would He His saving pow’r employ,
To break our servile band,
Loud shouts of universal joy
Should echo through the land.