1 Woe to the man, eternal woe
To Him by whom th’offense doth come!
His lot and portion are below,
His sentence is th’apostate’s doom;
Plunged in the depths of grief unless
With broken heart his crime he feel;
A load of guilt shall soon depress
His soul to the profoundest hell.

2 Ah, Savior, keep my trembling heart,
Which feels its own infirmity;
One moment, Lord, if Thou depart,
The dire offense will come by me;
But if myself I always fear,
Thou wilt display Thy guardian love,
And give me grace to persevere,
Till safe with Thee I rest above.