Dear dy­ing Lamb, for whom alone
We suf­fer pain, and shame, and loss,
Hear Thine af­flict­ed people groan,
Crushed by the bur­den of Thy cross,
And bear our faint­ing spir­its up,
And bless the bit­ter, sac­red cup.

Drunkards, and slaves of lewd ex­cess,
Bad, law­less men, Thou knowst, we lived:
The world, and we were then at peace,
No de­vil his own ser­vants grieved;
Evil we did, but suf­fered none:
The world will al­ways love its own.

But now we would Thy Word ob­ey,
And strive to es­cape the wrath di­vine,
Exposed to all, a help­less prey,
Bruised by our ene­mies, and Thine,
As sheep midst ra­ven­ing wolves we lie,
And dai­ly grieve, and dai­ly die.

Smitten, we turn the oth­er cheek,
Our ease, and name, and goods fore­go,
Help, or re­dress no long­er seek
In any child of man be­low;
The pow­ers Thou didst for us or­dain,
For us they bear the sword in vain.

But wilt Thou not at last ap­pear,
Into Thine hand the mat­ter take?
We look for no pro­tect­ion here,
But Thee our on­ly re­fuge make,
To Thee, O right­eous Judge, ap­peal,
And wait Thy just and per­fect will.

Thou wilt not shut Thy bow­els up,
Or jus­tice to the op­pressed de­ny;
Thy mer­cy’s ears Thou can­not stop,
Against the mourn­ful pri­son­ers’ cry,
Who ev­er make our hum­ble moan,
And look for help to Thee alone.

Then help us meek­ly to sus­tain
The cross of man’s op­press­ive pow­er,
To slight the shame, en­dure the pain,
And calm­ly wait the wel­come hour,
That brings the fie­ry cha­ri­ot down,
And whirls us to our heav’n­ly crown.