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 every breath,
Yet feel no checks in life and death,
We scarce believe it true
2 Thousands around seem highly blessed,
Who treat religion as a jest,
A fable or a song;
Down life's imptuous stream they glide,
Favored with canvas, wind and tide,
And smoothly float along.
3 By pleasure's flowery 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 caused their guilt and shame,
And freely they confess,
The bitter pill was candied 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 griefs 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 dressed in love 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 the 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.
Divine Hymns, or Spiritual Songs: for the use of religious assemblies and private Christians 1800