1 Unstable souls, the slaves of sense,
The tempt­er oft be­guiles,
Approaching with some fair pre­tense,
He veils his art­ful wiles.

2 Sometimes he tempts us to pre­sume,
And then to deep des­pair;
Tells us, in Christ there is no room,
No re­fuge for us there.

3 To youth he says, "’Tis yet too soon,
A dy­ing pray­er will do";
To hoa­ry age, "The time is gone,
To form the life anew."

4 When car­nal ob­jects we pur­sue,
He strews them in our way,
Enticing baits pre­sents to view,
And makes us soon his prey.

5 Now he as­sumes a form di­vine,
The sim­ple to al­lure,
Extols their du­ties with de­sign,
Their ru­in to se­cure.

6 A God all mer­cy or all wrath,
He’ll place be­fore our view,
Severe to mark the least of­fense,
Or care­less what we do.

7 Great God, his va­ri­ous schemes con­found,
Bind up this haugh­ty foe;
Then shall our tongues Thy praise re­sound,
Our hearts with joy o’er­flow.