Classic Poem

The wicked's splendour shall decay,
Like short-liv'd sparks of fire;
Thick fogs shall choke his glorious day,
And make his beams expire.

By labour'd plots and deep designs,
Which he for others stows,
A halter for himself he twines;
His wiles become his woes.

Death and destruction o'er his head
Do constantly impend;
His pleasures, which he gluts with greed,
Shall all in torment end.

His hope shall fall and never rise,
For with his bloody dart
The king of terrors in surprise,
Shall strike him to the heart.

Quite from the earth, God's 'venging hand
The wicked man shall chase;
Nor leave behind a branch to stand
Of all his hateful race.

In after-times the godless wretch
Shall be unknown to fame;
Or mention'd only with reproach,
With horror, and with shame.

In future fame some names indeed
Will stand for little good;
Like Pontius Pilate in the creed,
For blasphemy and blood.

Such oft, in time, the wicked's fate
Do indicate the store
Of sorrow, which his soul await,
When time shall be no more.