My for­mer hopes are dead,
My ter­ror now be­gins;
I feel, alas! that I am dead
In tres­pass­es and sins.

Ah whi­ther shall I fly?
I hear the thun­der roar;
The law pro­claims de­struct­ion nigh,
And ven­geance at the door.

When I re­view my ways,
I dread im­pend­ing doom;
But sure a friend­ly whis­per says,
Flee from the wrath to come.

I see, or think I see,
A glim­mer­ing from afar;
A beam of day that shines for me,
To save me from des­pair.

Forerunner of the sun,
It marks the pil­grim’s way;
I’ll gaze up­on it while I run,
And watch the ris­ing day.