Were Satan’s minions in disguise; so bold!
These dens of ill, they grow, you know;
We find them everywhere as we go, ready to throw
Their snares with fiendish skill.
Almost ’twould seem, to suit their will,
They’d gorge earth’s prisons to their fill below.
God looked on Tommy in the fight for right,
Saw darkness struggling with the light, so bright—
That light which shone on Eastern plain
Where shepherds heard angelic strain