Thou God of Truth and Love! excuse The _honest Anger_ of the _Muse_, Warm in _thy Cause_, while She wou'd pray That Thou from _Earth_ wou'd'st sweep away Such _rotten Saints_, who wou'd conceal Their _Fraud_ beneath the Name of _Zeal_! Who, mask'd with _spurious Piety_, Trample on _Reason_, _Truth_, and _Thee_, And, while their hot Career they run, Tread on the _Gospel_ of thy Son! Who, feigning to adore, make Thee A _Tyrant-God_ of Cruelty! As if thy _right Hand_ did contain Only an Universe of Pain, _Hell_ and _Damnation_ in thy _Left_, Of ev'ry gracious Gift bereft, Hence raining Floods of Grief and Woes, On those that never were thy Foes, Ordaining Torments for the doom Of Infants, yet within the Womb: By fifty false Devices more, Which _Reason_ never heard before, And _Methodists_ alone cou'd dream, Thy boundless _Goodness_ they blaspheme! Who (tho' our _Saviour_'s gracious Plan Was to teach Happiness to Man, By _friendly Arguments_ to win The World from Slavery to Sin; For He, who all Things knows, well knew, That they to Duty are more true, Who from a _filial Love_ obey, And serve for _Gratitude_, than they Who from a _coward Dread of Law_ Owe all their _Virtue_ to their _Awe_; Who, tho' they seem so true, and just, So strictly faithful to their Trust, Will, if you take the _Gallows_ down, Out-pilfer half the _Rogues_ in _Town_). With saucy boldness will presume To pass th' impenetrable gloom, And lift the Curtain which we see Is drawn betwixt the World and Thee; Of nought but endless Torments speak, To frighten and appall the weak; Dwell on the horrid Theme with glee, And fain themselves wou'd _Hangmen_ be; With so much _Dread_ their _Hearers_ fill, That they have neither _Pow'r_, nor _Will_, Tho' _Heav'n_'s the Prize, to move a Hand, But _shuddering_ and _trembling_ stand. Quench the hot Flame, O God, that burns, And _Piety_ to _Phrenzy_ turns! Let not thy _holy Name_ be made A _Cloak_ to hide a _pilf'ring Trade_! Nor suffer that thy _sacred Word_, Be turn'd to _Rhapsody absurd_! Let it not serve, like _Magic Sticks_, To preface _pious Jugglers'_ Tricks! Root, root from _Earth_, these baneful weeds, That choak _Religion_'s _wholesome Seeds_! Give them the headlong Winds to bear, And scatter in a desart Air! Grind them to Powder, that no more They sprout and grow as heretofore! Burn the rank stalks, and let the flame Thy Garden's hot luxuriance tame, Nor let it Flow'r, or Plant produce, But what yields _Ornament_ or _Use_!