Ye sons of pride, that hate the just

Ye sons of pride, that hate the just
And trample on the poor,
When death has brought you down to dust,
Your pomp shall rise no more.

The last great day shall change the scene;
When will that hour appear?
When shall the just revive, and reign
O'er all that scorned them here?

God will my naked soul receive,
When sep'rate from the flesh;
And break the prison of the grave,
To raise my bones afresh.

Heav'n is my everlasting home,
Th' inheritance is sure:
Let men of pride their rage resume,
But I'll repine no more.