CXL. Of lamenting national Sins.

O Righteous GOD, thou Judge supreme,
We tremble at thy dreadful Name,
And all our crying Guilt we own
In Dust and Tears before thy Throne.

So manifold our Crimes have been,
Such Crimson Tincture dyes our Sin,
That, could we all its Horrors know,
Our streaming Eyes with Blood might flow.

Britain, the Land thine Arm hath sav'd,
That Arm most impiously hath brav'd ;
Britain, the Isle its GOD hath lov'd,
A Rebel to that Love hath prov'd.

Estrang'd from reverential Awe
We trample on thy sacred Law;
And, tho' such Wonders Grace hath done,
Anew we crucify thy Son.

Justly might this polluted Land
Prove all the Vengeance of thy Hand;
And bath'd in Heav'n thy Sword might come
To drink our Blood, and seal our Doom.

Yet hast thou not a Remnant here,
Whose Souls are fill'd with pious Fear?
O bring thy wonted Mercy nigh,
While prostrate at thy Feet they lie.

Behold their Tears, attend their Moan,
Nor turn away their secret Groan:
With these we join our humble Pray'r;
Our Nation shield, our Country spare.

But if the Sentence be decreed,
And our dear native Land must bleed,
By thy sure Mark may we be known,
And save in Life or Death Thine own.