Why should the haughty hero boast,
His vengeful arm, his warlike host?
While blood defiles his cruel hand,
And desolation wastes the land.

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.

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.

But God beholds, and with a frown,
Casts to the dust his honours down;
The righteous freed, their hopes recall,
And hail the proud oppressors fall.

How low th’ insulting tyrant lies,
Who dar’d th’ eternal power despise;
And vainly deem’d with envious joy,
His arm almighty to destroy.

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.