Classic Poem

When the great Judge, supreme and just,
Shall once inquire for blood,
The humble souls, who mourn in dust,
Shall find a faithful God.

He, from the dreadful gates of death,
Doth his own children raise;
In Zion's gates with cheerful breath,
They sing their Father's praise.

His foes shall fall with heedless feet
Into the pit they made;
And sinners perish in the net,
That their own hands have spread.

Thus by thy judgments, mighty God!
Are thy deep counsels known;
When men of mischief are destroy'd,
The snare must be their own.

The wicked shall sink down to hell;
Thy wrath devour the lands
That dare forget thee, or rebel
Against thy known commands.

Though saints to sore distress are brought,
And wait and long complain,
Their cries shall never be forgot,
Nor shall their hopes be vain.