Old-Line Primitive Baptist Hymn and Tune Book

55 (C.M.) Isaac Watts

I hate the tempter and his charms,

I hate his flatt'ring breath;

The serpent takes a thousand forms

To cheat our souls to death.

He feeds our hopes with airy dreams,

Or kills with slavish fear,

And holds us still in wide extremes,

Presumption or despair.

Now he persuades, "How easy 'tis

To walk the road to heav'n;"

Anon he swells our sins, and cries,

"They cannot be forgiv'n!"

He bids young sinners, "Yet forbear

To think of God, or death;

For prayèr and devotion are

But melancholy breath."

He tells the agèd, "You must die!

And 'tis too late to pray;

In vain for mercy now you cry,

For you have lost your day."

Thus he supports his cruèl throne

By mischief and deceit,

And drags the sons of Adam down

To darkness and the pit.

Almighty God, cut short his pow'r;

Let him in darkness dwell.

And that he vex the earth no more,

Confine him down to hell!