O right­eous God, Thou judge su­preme,
We trem­ble at Thy dread­ful name,
And all our cry­ing guilt we own,
In dust and tears be­fore Thy throne.

So ma­ni­fold our crimes have been,
Such crim­son tinc­ture dyes our sin,
That, could we all its hor­rors know,
Our stream­ing eyes with blood might flow.

Britain, the land Thine arm hath saved,
That arm most im­pi­ous­ly hath braved;
Britain, the isle its God hath loved,
A re­bel to that love hath proved.

Estranged from re­ver­en­tial awe,
We tram­ple on Thy sac­red law;
And though such won­ders grace hath done,
Anew we cru­ci­fy Thy Son.

Justly might this pol­lut­ed land
Prove all the ven­geance of Thy hand;
And, bathed in Hea­ven Thy sword might come
To drink our blood, and seal our doom.

Yet hast Thou not a rem­nant here,
Whose souls are filled with pi­ous fear?
O bring Thy wont­ed mer­cy nigh,
While pros­trate at Thy feet they lie.

Behold their tears, at­tend their moan,
Nor turn away their sec­ret groan;
With these we join in hum­ble pray­er:
Our na­tion shield, our coun­try spare.

But if the sen­tence be de­creed,
And our dear na­tive land must bleed,
By Thy sure mark may we be known,
And save in life or death Thy own.