Would we not turn our backs on our Lord, as before?
Would not the same spirit still bear the same fruit?
And the Lord still to us our transgressions impute?
Oh! poor fallen man, rushing on to despair,
With high hopes all anchored in earth’s fatal snare,
To be swept away soon, with the refuge of lies,
While the soul in deep anguish the second death dies.
Depart from Sin.
Could the deluded votaries
Of fashion and of song,