Fools make a mock at sin,
And with de­struc­tion sport;
But death will stop their sim­ple grin,
And cut their laugh­ter short.

Bethink, oh, thought­less man,
What mi­se­ry sin brings forth;
All sor­row, sick­ness, want, and pain,
From sin re­ceive their birth.

On an­gels sin has cast
Destruction with­out end;
Through sin the heav’n­ly form they lost,
And sunk in­to a fiend!

The sin thou lov­est well,
At last will make thee mourn;
It has blown up a fire in hell,
Which will for ev­er burn.

Sin bring­eth ghast­ly woe,
Yet comes with leer­ing face!
Regard it as thy dead­ly foe,
And fly its foul em­brace.

Lord, give me god­ly fear,
And keep me watch­ful, too,
Else I may sit in scorn­er’s chair,
And mock as scorn­ers do.