Verse 1
Blind in our natural estate,
Of forms and notions proud,
Born of the flesh, we scorn and hate
The sacred sons of God;
The men who trust in Jesus’ death
As hereticks we doom,
And unreform’d, the spirit breathe
Of persecuting Rome.
Verse 2
Bishops by superstition steel’d
Have drawn the slaughtring sword,
Bishops have oft their dungeons fill’d
With servants of the Lord,
Cast out the saints of the Most-high
As execrable names,
Adjudg’d the wretches vile to die,
And drag’d them to the flames.