Hence from my soul, my sins, de­part,
Your fa­tal friend­ship now I see;
Long have you dwelt too near my heart:
Hence, to eter­nal dis­tance flee.

Ye gave my dy­ing Lord His wound,
Yet I ca­ressed your vi­per­ous brood,
And in my heart-strings lapped you round,
You, the vile mur­der­ers of my God.

Black hea­vy thoughts, like mount­ains, roll
O’er my poor breast, with bod­ing fears,
And crush­ing hard my tor­tured soul,
Wring thro’ my eyes the bri­ny tears.

Forgive my trea­sons, Prince of Grace,
The bloody Jews were trai­tors too,
Yet Thou hast prayed for that curs­ed race,
Fa­ther, they know not what they do.

Great Ad­vo­cate, look down and see
A wretch, whose smart­ing sor­rows bleed;
O plead the same ex­cuse for me!
For, Lord, I knew not what I did.

Peace, my com­plaints; let ev­ery groan
Be still, and si­lence wait His love;
Compassions dwell amidst His throne,
And thro’ His in­most bow­els move.

Lo, from the ev­er­last­ing skies,
Gently, as morn­ing dews dis­till,
The dove im­mor­tal down­ward flies,
With peace­ful ol­ive in his bill.

How sweet the voice of par­don sounds!
Sweet the re­lief to deep dis­tress!
I feel the balm that heals my wounds,
And all my pow­ers adore the grace.