Stop, poor sin­ner! stop and think
Before you far­ther go!
Will you sport up­on the brink
Of ev­er­last­ing woe?
Once again I charge you, stop!
For, un­less you warn­ing take,
Ere you are aware, you drop
Into the burn­ing lake!

Say, have you an arm like God,
That you His will op­pose?
Fear you not that ir­on rod
With which He breaks His foes?
Can you stand in that dread day,
When He judg­ment shall pro­claim,
And the earth shall melt away
Like wax be­fore the flame?

Pale faced death will quick­ly come
To drag you to His bar;
Then to hear your aw­ful doom
Will fill you with des­pair:
All your sins will round you crowd,
Sins of a blood-crim­son dye;
Each for ven­geance cry­ing loud,
And what can you re­ply?

Though your heart be made of steel,
Your fore­head lined with brass,
God at length will make you feel,
He will not let you pass:
Sinners then in vain will call,
Though they now des­pise His grace,
Rocks and mount­ains on us fall,
And hide us from His face!

But as yet there is a hope
You may His mer­cy know;
Though His arm is lift­ed up
He still for­bears the blow:
’Twas for sin­ners Je­sus died,
Sinners He in­vites to come;
None who come shall be de­nied,
He says, There still is room.