Thou Awful God, Whose Righteous Ire

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.