The poem
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.
The world's esteem is but a bribe, To buy their peace you sell your own; The slave of a vainglorious tribe, Who hate you while they make you known.
The joy that vain amusements give, Oh! sad conclusion that it brings! The honey of a crowded hive, Defended by a thousand stings.
'Tis thus the world rewards the fools That live upon her treacherous smiles: She leads them blindfold by her rules, And ruins all whom she beguiles.
God knows the thousands who go down From pleasure into endless woe; And with a long despairing groan Blaspheme the Maker as they go.
Oh fearful thought! be timely wise; Delight but in a Saviour's charms, And God shall take you to the skies, Embraced in everlasting arms.