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| 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. | Divine Hymns, or Spiritual Songs: for the Use of Religious Assemblies and Private Christians (7th Ed. Rev.) #78 (1800) Divine Hymns or Spiritual Songs, for the use of religious assemblies and private Christians: being a collection #LXXXIII (1802) |
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