Mercy

O sweet — attentive to the pray'r,
Ye forward hope and stave despair;
Thro' Christ his blood divinely spill'd,
Tremendous ruin to rebuild.

Tho' high above the great and just,
Yet thou descendest to the dust;
Both to the sovereign and the slave,
Nor quitt'st the monument and grave.

O let me like the righteous die,
And so I shall if thou art by!
The viol in thy hand uprears
My Saviour's blood, my Saviour's tears.

Come, Cherub, come, possess my soul,
All wrath and bitterness controul;
If thou thy charming pow'rs bestow,
I'll shew thee to my veriest foe.