Men don't believe in a devil now, as their fathers used to do;
They've forced the door of the broadest creed to let His Majesty through.
There isn't a print of his cloven foot or a fiery dart from his bow
To be found in earth or air to-day, for the world has voted so.
But who is it mixing the fatal draught that palsies heart and brain,
And loads the bier of each passing year with ten hundred thousand slain?
Who blights the bloom of the land to-day with the fiery breath of Hell,
If the Devil isn't and never was? Won't somebody rise and tell?
Who dogs the steps of the toiling saint, and digs the pits for his feet?
Who sows the tares in the field of time where-ever God sows His wheat?
The Devil is voted not to be, and of course the thing is true;
But who is doing the kind of work the Devil alone should do?
