My Lord, pray bring us help,
The godly men are gone,
The faithful men are not
In Adam’s race here strong.
With vanity they speak,
Each one to his friend,
They flattery with the lip,
With double hearts pretend.
The Lord will bring an end,
To lips of flattery,
And He will stop the mouth,
Which speaks thus boastfully.
They have said, “Our tongue,
Our language is our sword.
Our words will be with us.
Who will be our lord?”
“For the helpless poor,”
Says God, “for the deprived,
I will rise, and grant
Their needs for which they strive.”
The words of God our pure,
(not like unrighteous leaven,)
Like silver well refined,
By multiple of seven.
And He takes care of us,
Protects us from the fiend,
And he will fortify
Who on Him humbly lean.
The wicked number great,
And prowl on every side.
Their sins they do exalt,
Their guilt they cannot hide.
The Lord for us contends.
The wicked suck in wind!
Sermon Poems 