How vain, great God, and worse than vain,
How sin­ful our pre­tend­ed pain
In this our ev­il day!
Unless we to our Smit­er turn,
The cause of all our ev­ils mourn,
And cast our sins away.

’Gainst vice we par­tial­ly de­claim,
With un­dis­cern­ing cen­sure blame
Our na­tion’s wick­ed­ness:
But O! The sin that loud­est cries
For all the ven­geance of the skies,
We ne­ver once con­fess.

O might we from our hearts re­pent
Of scorn­ing Him Thy pi­ty sent
To heal our sin and grief!
Assist us through Thy Spir­it’s pow­er,
To own, and feel­ing­ly de­plore
Our damn­ing un­be­lief.

Convince the wretc­hes who de­ny
Their Lord, that stooped for them to die,
Who tri­umph in His pain,
Who tram­ple on His pre­cious blood,
And hate, and scoff the dy­ing God,
And cru­ci­fy again.

Confound the mis­be­liev­ing pride
Of those that im­pi­ous­ly di­vide
Thy dear­est Son and Thee,
Who will not Him Thine eq­ual own,
But mad­ly threat­en to de­throne
The fi­li­al De­ity.

And O! Al­migh­ty Son of God,
Into the blind self right­eous crowd
Thy sharp­est ar­rows dart;
The men who in­fi­dels con­demn,
Nor ev­er knew them­selves the same,
Mere in­fi­dels in heart.

A for­mal self de­ceiv­ing race,
Who mock the coun­sel of Thy grace,
The sense of sins for­giv­en,
The pow­er of god­li­ness ex­plode,
The wit­ness, and the peace of God,
And faith that leads to Hea­ven.

Forgive us, Lord, for such we were,
And all our guil­ty breth­ren spare,
Our un­belief re­prove,
Give us that root of sins to own,
And make our wound­ed spir­its groan
Beneath their want of love.

Let all the faith­less na­tion cry,
Redeem us, Sav­ior, or we die,
A se­cond death to feel:
O Je­sus, Thine on­ly name and blood
Can save us from the wrath of God,
Can ran­som us from hell.

On Thee our dy­ing souls we cast,
Our dy­ing souls re­ceive at last,
And in Thy arms em­brace,
To tri­umph in Thy par­don­ing love,
And sing with all the saved above
Thine ev­er­last­ing praise.