Words: Isaac Watts
A complaint against persecutors.
1 And will the God of grace Perpetual silence keep? The God of justice hold his peace, And let his vengeance sleep?
2 Behold, what cursed snares The men of mischief spread! The men that hate thy saints and thee Lift up their threat'ning head.
3 Against thy hidden ones Their counsels they employ, And malice, with her watchful eye, Pursues them to destroy.
4 The noble and the base Into thy pastures leap; The lion and the stupid ass Conspire to vex thy sheep.
5 "Come, let us join," they cry, "To root them from the ground, Till not the name of saints remain, Nor mem'ry shall be found."
6 Awake, Almighty God, And call thy wrath to mind; Give them like forests to the fire, Or stubble to the wind.
7 Convince their madness, Lord, And make them seek thy name; Or else their stubborn rage confound, That they may die in shame.
8 Then shall the nations know That glorious, dreadful word, Jehovah is thy name alone, And thou the soy'reign Lord.