Why Doth the Man of Riches Grow?

Why doth the man of rich­es grow

To in­so­lence and pride

To see his wealth and hon­ors flow

With ev­ery ris­ing tide?

Why doth he treat the poor with scorn

Made of the self-same clay

And boast as though his flesh was born

Of bet­ter dust than they?

Not all his trea­sures can pro­cure

His soul a short re­prieve

Redeem from death one guil­ty hour

Or make his bro­ther live.

Life is a bless­ing can’t be sold

The ran­som is too high;

Justice will ne’er be bribed with gold

That man may nev­er die.

He sees the brut­ish and the wise

The ti­mor­ous and the brave

Quit their pos­ses­sions

close their eyes

And hast­en to the grave.

Yet ’tis his in­ward thought and pride

My house shall ev­er stand

And that my name may long ab­ide

I’ll give it to my land.

Vain are his thoughts

his hopes are lost

How soon his me­mo­ry dies!

His name is writ­ten in the dust

Where his own car­cass lies.

This is the fol­ly of their way;

And yet their sons

as vain

Approve the words their fa­thers say

And act their works again.

Men void of wis­dom and of grace

If hon­or raise them high

Live like the beast

a thought­less race

And like the beast they die.

Laid in the grave like sil­ly sheep

Death feeds up­on them there

Till the last trum­pet break their sleep

In ter­ror and des­pair.