1 Sin is the fatal cause of woe,
The spring from whence our troubles flow,
Yet when we take a view
Of those who sin in ev'ry breath,
Yet feel no checks in life and death,
We scarce believe it true
2 Thousands around seem highly bless'd,
Who treat religion as a jest,
A fable or a song;
Down life's impt'ous stream they glide,
Favor'd with canvas, wind and tide,
And smoothly float along.
3 By pleasure's flow'ry bank they steer,
No troubles feel, nor can they fear
But laugh, and sing, and play;
Till deep they plunge in endless night
Without one drop of sweet delight,
Or glimpse of op'ning day.
4 O sad exchange! O wretched state?
Now they can feel (when 'tis too late)
What they have heard in vain;
Despair and anguish dwell within,
The bitter, bitter fruits of sin,
And make them roar with pain!
5 Their groans emphatic, loud complain,
'Twas guilt that caus'd their guilt and shame
And freely they confess ,
The bitter pill was candy'd o'er,
'Twas all indulgence just before,
But now 'tis all distress.
6 More they would own--but I forbear,
And quit those regions of despair;
And now would ask the saints,
"If guilt be harmless tell me why
"Those trickling tears, that heaving sigh,
"And whence those sad complaints."
7 When sin, that viper, you caress
Striking remorse and keen distress
Speedily make you smart;
'Tis that which hides the Savior's face,
Incurs his frowns, suspends his grace,
And wounds you to the heart.
8 Then grief like heavy torrents roll,
Till the poor agonizing soul
Lies bleeding on the rack;
The round of duty's trodden still,
But 'tis like laboring up a hill,
With mountains on the back.
9 One guilty scene such anguish brings,
Clogs the poor soul and clips its wings,
And drags it from the skies;
'Till Jesus dress'd in white appears,
Forgives the guilt, and wipes the tears
From the beclouded eyes.
10 O Christians! never hope to meet,
In pleasures sinful, tasting sweet,
But bid them all adieu;
Stings from forbidden pleasures grow,
At least my soul hath found it so,
And owns th' assertion true.
11 Restraining grace dear Jesus grant,
Make me like nature's noblest plant;
And may my fear be such,
That when temptations lie in wait,
I may disdain the gilded bait,
And shrinking, shun the touch.
|First Line:||Sin is the fatal cause of woe|
|Title:||Guilt and distress inseparable companions|