Thou aw­ful God, whose right­eous ire
In Si­on as a fur­nace burns;
Fit fu­el of eter­nal fire,
A face that all Thy mer­cy scorns;
Behold us where in death we lie,
Nor let our souls for ev­er die.

All we like sheep have gone as­tray,
Have turned to our own wick­ed­ness,
Rushed head­long down the spa­cious way;
But O! how few their sins con­fess,
Their foul apos­ta­sy be­moan,
Or trem­ble as the wrath comes down.

Yet hast Thou left Thy­self a seed,
A rem­nant of pe­cul­iar grace,
A lit­tle flock who mourn and plead,
And wres­tle for the faith­less race,
That will not hear Thy threat­en­ing rod,
Or turn, and find a par­don­ing God.

Touched from above with fear di­vine,
We would the weep­ing few in­crease,
Our brok­en hearts and voic­es join,
And wail our na­tion’s wick­ed­ness,
In deep­est groans our crimes de­clare,
In all the ago­ny of pray­er.

Alas for us, to ev­il sold,
A seed of lips and hearts un­clean,
In vice be­yond ex­am­ple bold,
Sunk in the dregs of time and sin,
Laden with all ini­qui­ty,
As Sa­tan con­tra­ry to Thee!

Yet for the right­eous rem­nant’s sake
Our death-de­vot­ed So­dom spare,
And call the storms of ven­geance back—
Or if Thou canst no more for­bear,
Thyself re­sume our wretch­ed breath,
But save us from eter­nal death.