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?