Classic Poem

Where is the hypocrite's false hope,
Though for a time he gain'd
Praise and applause, and lifted up,
In pomp and pleasure reign'd?

Where is hope at last, when once
The mighty God shall wrest
His trembling soul, with violence,
From his reluctant breast?

Will God give ear unto his cry,
When troubles o'er him flow,
Presaging worse calamity,
His everlasting woe?

Will painted pray'rs avert the blast,
When he perceives with dread,
The clouds of vengeance gath'ring fast
Above his guilty head?

Will God Almighty be his joy,
Devotion his delight;
Or pray'r to God his close employ,
When crutches fail him quite?

He prays, compell'd with heavy strokes;
But unregarded prayer
He quits; nor more his Judge invokes,
But sinks in deep despair.

No favour dare the rebel seek,
That scorn'd redeeming-grace;
His guilty conscience, dragon-like,
Still flying in his face.