Ye Sons of Pride

Ye sons of pride

that hate the just

And tram­ple on the poor

When death has brought you down to dust

Your pomp shall rise no more.

The last great day shall change the scene;

When will that hour ap­pear?

When shall the just re­vive

and reign

O’er all that scorned them here?

God will my nak­ed soul re­ceive

When se­pa­rate from the flesh;

And break the pri­son of the grave

To raise my bones afresh.

Heav’n is my ev­er­last­ing home

Th’in­her­it­ance is sure:

Let men of pride their rage re­sume

But I’ll re­pine no more.