CCXXVII. The same.

AND shall we still be Slaves,
And in our Fetters lie,
When summon'd by a Voice divine
T' assert our Liberty?

Did the great Saviour bleed
Our Freedom to obtain,
That we should trample on his Blood,
And glory in our Chain?

Alas, the sordid Mind!
How all its Pow'rs are broke!
Proud of a Tyrant's haughty Sway,
And practis'd to the Yoke!

Divine Redeemer, hear,
Thy sov'reign Pow'r impart,
And let thy gen'rous Spirit wake
True Ardour in our Heart.

Then shall the Sons of Death,
That in the Dungeon lie,
Spring to the Throne of pard'ning Grace,
And Abba, Father, cry.