Retribution 174

Lord, what a thoughtless wretch was I,
To mourn and murmur and repine,
To see the wicked placed on high,
In pride and robes of honor shine.

Chorus:
But O their end, their dreadful end,
Thy sanctuary taught me so:
On slipp'ry rocks I see them stand,
And fi'ry billows roll below.

False are the men of high degree;
The baser sort are vanity;
Laid in the balance both appear
Light as a puff of empty air.

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