Scripture Verse

The fool hath said in his heart, There is no God. They are corrupt, they have done abominable works, there is none that doeth good. Psalm 14:1


Isaac Watts (1674–1748)

Words: Is­aac Watts, Ho­ræ Ly­ri­cæ and Di­vine Songs, Book 1, 1706, pag­es 32–33. The athe­ist’s mis­take.

Music: Ab­er­deen pos­si­bly by An­drew Tait, in James Chal­mers’ un­ti­tled col­lect­ion, 1749. Me­lo­dy from Ru­di­ments of Mu­sic, by Ro­bert Brem­ner, 1756 (🔊 pdf nwc).


Laugh, ye pro­fane, and swell and burst,
With bold im­pi­ety:
Yet shall ye live for ev­er cursed,
And seek in vain to die.

The gasp of your ex­pir­ing breath
Consigns your souls to chains,
By the last ago­nies of death
Sent down to fierc­er pains.

Ye stand up­on a dread­ful steep,
And all be­neath is hell;
Your weigh­ty guilt will sink you deep
Where the old ser­pent fell.

When ir­on slum­bers bind your flesh,
With strange sur­prise you’ll find
Immortal vi­gor spring afresh,
And tor­tures wake the mind!

Then you’ll con­fess the fright­ful names
Of plagues you scorned be­fore,
No more shall look like idle dreams,
Like fool­ish tales no more.

Then shall ye curse that fa­tal day,
With flames up­on your tongue,
When you ex­changed your souls away
For va­ni­ty and songs.

Behold, the saints re­joice to die,
For Heav’n shines round their heads;
And an­gel guards pre­pared to fly,
Attend their faint­ing beds.

Their long­ing spir­its part, and rise
To their ce­les­ti­al seat;
Above these ru­in­able skies
They make their last re­treat.

Hence, ye pro­fane, I hate your ways,
I walk with pi­ous souls;
There’s a wide dif­fer­ence in our race,
And dist­ant are our goals.