Help, Lord, for men of virtue fail,

Religion loses ground,

The sons of violence prevail,

And treacheries abound.

Their oaths and promises they break,

Yet act the flatterer's part;

With fair, deceitful lips they speak,

And with a double heart.

If we reprove some hateful lie,

How is their fury stirred

"Are not our lips our own?" they cry;

"And who shall be our Lord?"

Scoffers appear on every side,

Where a vile race of men

Is raised to seats of power and pride,

And bears the sword in vain.

Lord, when iniquities abound,

And blasphemy grows bold;

When faith is hardly to be found,

And love is waxing cold;

Is not thy chariot hast'ning on?

Hast thou not giv'n this sign?

May we not trust and live upon

A promise so divine?

"Yes," saith the Lord, "now will I rise,

And make oppressors flee;

I shall appear to their surprise,

And set my servants free."

Thy word, like silver sev'n times tried,

Through ages shall endure;

The men that in thy truth confide

Shall find the promise sure.