Men don't believe in a devil now as their fathers used to do,
They reject one creed because it's old, for another because it's new.
There's not a print from his cloven foot nor a fiery dart from his bow,
To be found in the earth or the air today, at least they declare it so.
But who is it that mixes that fatal draught that palsies heart and brain?
Who loads the bier of each passing year with its hundred thousand slain?
Who blights the bloom of the land today with the fiery breath of hell?
If it isn't the devil who does that work, who does, won't somebody tell?
Who dogs the steps of the toiling saint, who spreads the net for his feet?
Who sows the tares in the world's broad field, where the Saviour sows his wheat?
If the devil is voted not to be, is the verdict therefore true?
Someone is surely doing the work the devil was thought to do.
They may say the devil; has never lived, they may say the devil is gone,
But simple people would like to know, who carries the business on.