1 The wicked fools must sure suppose,
That God is but a name:
This gross mistake their practice shows,
Since virtue all disclaim.

2 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.

3 But all he saw were backward gone,
Degen'rate grown and base;
None for religion car'd, not one
Of all the sinful race.

4 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?

5 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.

6 Would He His saving pow'r employ,
To break our servile band,
Loud shouts of universal joy
Should echo through the land.