Dreadful, pride chas­tis­ing word
Of sur­est pro­phe­cy!
Two in three that call Thee Lord,
Shall be cut off and die.
Who should then of grace pre­sume?
Father, in Thine hands I am,
Save me from th’apos­tate’s doom,
I ask in Je­su’s name.

Need I then, my God, des­pair
Thy fa­vor to retain?
Lost if two in three there are,
The third shall still re­main;
Of the third dis­ting­uished part,
That I may live for­ev­er one,
Stamp Thine im­age on my heart,
And join me to Thy Son.