Too many, Lord, ab­use Thy grace,
In this li­cen­tious day;
And while they boast they see Thy face,
They turn their own away.

Thy Book dis­plays a gra­cious light
That can the blind re­store;
But these are daz­zled by the sight,
And blind­ed still the more.

The par­don, such pre­sume upon,
They do not beg, but steal;
And when they plead it at Thy throne,
Oh! where’s the Spir­it’s seal?

Was it for this, ye law­less tribe,
The dear Re­deem­er bled?
Is this the grace the saints im­bibe
From Christ the liv­ing Head?

Ah, Lord, we know Thy chos­en few
Are fed with heav’n­ly fare;
But these, the wretch­ed husks they chew
Proclaim them what they are.

The li­ber­ty our hearts im­plore
Is not to live in sin;
But still to wait at wis­dom’s door,
Till mer­cy calls us in.