1 Fools make a mock at sin,
And with destruction sport;
But death will stop their simple grin,
And cut their laughter short.
2 Bethink, oh, thoughtless man,
What misery sin brings forth;
All sorrow, sickness, want, and pain,
From sin receive their birth.
3 On angels sin has cast
Destruction without end;
Through sin the heav’nly form they lost,
And sunk into a fiend!
4 The sin thou lovest well,
At last will make thee mourn;
It has blown up a fire in hell,
Which will for ever burn.
5 Sin bringeth ghastly woe,
Yet comes with leering face!
Regard it as thy deadly foe,
And fly its foul embrace.
6 Lord, give me godly fear,
And keep me watchful, too,
Else I may sit in scorner’s chair,
And mock as scorners do.
Source: The Cyber Hymnal #13704