1 God gives his mercies to be spent;
Your hoard will do your soul no good;
Gold is a blessing only lent,
Repaid by giving others food.
2 The world's esteem is but a bribe;
To buy their peace you sell your own,
The slave of a vain-glorious tribe.
Who hate you while they make you known.
3 The joy that vain amusements give,
Oh, sad conclusion that it brings!
The honey of a crowded hive,
Defended by a thousand stings.
4 'Tis thus the world rewards the fools
That live upon her treach'rous smiles:
She leads them blindfold by her rules,
And ruins all whom she beguiles.
5 God knows the thousands who go down
From pleasure into endless woe,
And with a long despairing groan
Blaspheme their Maker as they go.
6 O fearful thought! be timely wise;
Delight but in a Saviour's charms.
And God shall take you to the skies.
Embraced in everlasting arms.