Grace rules below, and sits enthroned above,
How few the sparks of wrath! how slow they move,
And drop and die in boundless seas of love!

But me, vile wretch! should pitying love embrace
Deep in its ocean, hell itself would blaze,
And flash and burn me through the boundless seas.

Yea, Lord, my guilt to such a vastness grown
Seems to confine my choice to wrath alone,
And calls Thy power to vindicate Thy throne.

Thine honor bids, Avenge Thy injured name,
Thy slighted loves a dreadful glory claim,
While my moist tears might but incense Thy flame.

Should heav’n grow black, almighty thunder roar,
And vengeance blast me, I could plead no more,
But own Thy justice, dying, and adore.

Yet can those bolts of death that cleave the flood
To reach a rebel, pierce this sacred shroud,
Tinged in the vital stream of my Redeemer’s blood?