The heavy wrathful sword of God,
Shall on their necks descend,
Whom neither could his chast'ning rod,
Nor charming word amend.

False hypocrites, to vengeance sore
Addestin'd, haste to lay
Accumulated wrath in store
Against the wrathful day.

In gross neglect of pray'r they live,
God is not in their mind;
They cry not for his help, nor grieve
Ev'n when his cords them bind.

On them doth sudden ruin come,
And sweep them off the stage,
Amidst the very youthful bloom
And vigour of their age.

Soon does the unexpected bane
Their easy seats surprise:
Descending like the fiery rain,
On Sodom, from the skies.

Then, after death, their soul shall live,
'Mong unclean sp'rits in hell;
For in the heav'ns, where saints arrive,
No unclean thing can dwell.