CCLVIII. Treasuring up Wrath by despising Mercy.

UNgrateful Sinners, whence this Scorn
Of long-extended Grace?
And whence this Madness, that insults
Th' Almighty to his Face?

Is it because his Patience waits,
And pitying Bowels move,
You multiply audacious Crimes,
And spurn his richest Love?

Is all the treasur'd Wrath so small,
You labour still for more,
Tho' not eternal rolling Years
Can e'er exhaust the Store?

Swift doth the Day of Vengeance come,
That must your Sentence seal;
And righteous Judgment now unknown
In all its Pomp reveal.

Alarm'd and melted at thy Voice,
Our conquer'd Hearts would bow;
And, to escape the Thund'rer then,
Embrace the Saviour now.