That with contempt they view them.
With joy themselves they yielded quite,
With singing and God-praising:
The sophists had small appetite
For these new things so dazing
Which God was thus revealing.

They now repent the deed of blame,
Would gladly gloze it over;
They dare not glory in their shame;
The facts almost they cover.
In their hearts gnaweth infamy--
They to their friends deplore it:
The Spirit cannot silent be;
Good Abel's blood out-poured
Must still old Cain discover!

To spread, their ashes will not cease;
Into all lands they scatter;
Stream, hole, ditch, grave will them release;
All winds shall tell the matter.
Them whom from life their murderous hand
Drove down to silence triple,
They hear them now in every land,
In tongues of every people,
Go about gladly singing.

Still their foul lies they will not leave,
But trim and dress the murther;
The fable false which out they give