1 My soul, abjure th' accursed throng,
Whose prosp'ring wealth increases fast
By fraud, by violence, and wrong,
Still thriving for the thunder's blast.

2 If high or low my station be,
Of noble or ignoble name,
By uncorrupted honesty
Thy blessing, Lord, I'd humbly claim.

3 Enrich'd with that, no want I'll fear,
Thy providence shall be my trust;
Thou wilt provide my portion here,
Thou friend and guardian of the just.

4 O may I, with sincere delight,
To all the task of duty pay;
Tender of every social right,
Obedient to thy righteous sway.

5 Such virtue thou wilt not forget,
In worlds where every virtue shares
A fit reward, tho' not of debt,
But what thy boundless grace prepares.