Verse 1
The conscience of chief-priests admire!
So carefully a gnat they strain!
The price of blood, the traitor’s hire
Their sacred offerings would profane:
But guiltless blood they boldly spill,
And no remorse the ruffians feel.
Verse 2
The children with their sires compare:
How closely in their steps they tread!
For small, indifferent things they care,
For superstitious triffles plead,
But take the ancient murtherer’s part,
And hate their brethren in their heart.
Verse 3
With envious, fierce, vindictive pride,
Saviour, thy servants they defame,
Cast out our names, unheard, untried,
Resolv’d, impatient to condemn,
And in our innocence t’ oppress
The truth with all its witnesses.