FORSAKE, my soul, the tents of Sin,
How false her joys appear;
Noise and confusion dwell within;
Peace is a stranger there.

Peace never fix’d her sacred throne
So near the gates of hell;
She reigns in pious breasts alone,
Where heav’nly virtues dwell.

The men who keep the laws of God,
His choicest blessings share;
Or, if he lift his chast’ning rod,
‘Tis with a father’s care.

His mighty pow’r shall guard the just;
His wisdom points their way;
His eye shall watch their sleeping dust;
His hand revive their clay.

Begin, ye saints, the joyful task;
His praise employ your tongue;
And soon eternity will ask
A more exalted song.