The poetical works of John and Charles Wesley

While void of care, the cheerful crowd
In shouts and acclamations loud
The festal time employ;
Let us, who still the rod revere,
With pitying grief and humble fear
Correct the lighter joy.

Not but Thou read'st our thankful heart,
Thankful that Thou hast took our part,
And saved the sinful land;
Thou hast preserved the best of kings,
And shadow'd with thy mercy's wings
The man of Thy right hand.

Yet must we, Lord, with shame confess,
Nor for our nation's righteousness
Hast Thou deliverance sent,
But grantest us a longer space,
To try, if those who scorn'd Thy grace
Will now at last repent.

103

Thou hast not dropp'd Thy quarrel, Lord,
Thou hast not from the threatening sword
Revoked its charge to kill:
Thine anger is not turn'd away,
Thy justice still demands its prey,
Thine hand is stretch'd out still.

Conquerors of our intestine foes,
We spurn the authors of our woes;
But can our tears be dry
While just necessity commands,
And slaughter'd by fraternal hands,
Whole troops of Britons die?

Thousands to their account are fled
With all their sins upon their head,
(Sins against man and God,)
Their lives are lost to ransom ours:
And still the sword abroad devours,
And thirsts for nobler blood.

The man who sits on the red horse
Holds on his bloody rapid course,
And peace from earth destroys;
And O! what crowds of Britain's sons
Have own'd his power in dying groans,
And answer'd to his voice!

O might we mercy seek and find,
Ere yet he calls the man behind,
Who rides the sable steed;
Ere yet the meagre form appears,
With a long train of dearthy years,
And famine lifts his head.

104

Before with fruitless horror we
The man on the pale courser see,
And feel his blasting breath,
Jesu, regard the nation's cry,
Reverse our doom, nor let us die
The pestilential death.

O might we all to Thee submit,
And fall, and kiss Thy bleeding feet,
And own Thee for our King,
Bright in Thy glorious image rise,
And rapt at last above the skies,
Thine endless praises sing.

University of Virginia Library

HYMN VII.

[While void of care, the cheerful crowd]