Classic Poem

Our two first parents happy stood,
Till, soon as sin had place,
They lost their garden, and their God,
And kill'd their unborn race.

Thus sprung the plague from Adam's bow'r,
And ruin spread abroad;
O cursed sin! that in one hour,
Spoil'd six days' work of God.

Tremble, O sinner! mourn for grief,
That such a foe's within;
Fly, fly, to Christ for quick relief,
And let him kill your sin.