III
Whoever plays with golden strings,
Him honor more than thyself even;
For know that God did love thee so,
He needs must send him thee from heaven.
’Tis terrible when plague and want
To God’s chastisement must belong;
Of punishments the greatest though,
Is when a nation lacks in song.
That race indeed has yet to die,
That had its prophets still to sing;
And every song that’s born in heaven
In even death new life doth bring.