Iii

Whoever plays with golden strings, Him honor more than thyself even; For know that God did love thee so, He needs must send him thee from heaven.

’Tis terrible when plague and want To God’s chastisement must belong; Of punishments the greatest though, Is when a nation lacks in song.

That race indeed has yet to die, That had its prophets still to sing; And every song that’s born in heaven In even death new life doth bring.