Classic Poem

Ye fleshly lusts, ye greedy cares
For this-frail mass of clay;
For life which every pulse impairs,
For joys which pass away;

No more my simple heart inslave,
No more my time consume.
Your works are finish'd in the grave,
Your pleasures in the tomb.

But Oh! beyond the tomb there lies
The dungeon of despair:
Thither the fleshly spirit flies,
To dwell in darkness there.

The guilty spirit there shall quake,
With souls of kindred sin:
Till wrath's loud voice their dust awake,
New suff'rings to begin.

Then shall the lake of sulphur blaze,
Fir'd by avenging breath;
On them its quenchless fury preys —
Behold the second death!

Awful severity! O fear,
Worldlings, your Maker's hate.
His mercy's timely warnings hear,
Lest weeping come too late.