Hymns for Times of Trouble, for the Year 1745, 8

Dreadful, sin-chastising God,
If the decree is past,
If the long-impending rod
Must scourge our land at last,
When Thou dost in wrath reprove
The sinners who Thy judgments dare,
Spare the remnant, Lord, in love

If on such a land as this
Thou must avenged be,
Yet preserve in perfect peace
The souls that trust on Thee:
Hide their precious lives above,
And make them Thy peculiar care,
Spare the remnant, Lord, in love

Mark the men, who deeply sigh
Our loathsome crimes to view,
Hear their deprecating cry,
And save the mournful few,
Far from them the plague remove,
The famine, and the waste of war,
Spare the remnant, Lord, in love

To Thy little flock of sheep
O that Thy grace might join
Us, even us who fain would weep
Beneath the wrath Divine:
Help us, O Thou Holy Dove,
To breathe the much-availing prayer,
Spare the remnant, Lord, in love

Surely now in part we feel
The answer to our cry,
Thou Thine anger dost reveal,
And bring the judgment nigh;
Now the coming woes we prove,
And groan the common ills to bear
Spare the remnant, Lord, in love

Grant us still to pray and grieve
Till all the wrath is past;
This the sign Thou wilt forgive
And heal our land at last:
Heavily till then we move,
And sigh our sympathising care,
Spare the remnant, Lord, in love