Hymns for Whit-Sunday, 18

Arm of the Lord, awake, awake,
The terrors of the Lord display;
Out of their sins the nations shake,
Tear their vain confidence away;
Conclude them all in unbelief,
And fill their hearts with sacred grief.

Impart the salutary pain,
The sudden soul-condemning power,
Blow on the gcodliness of man,
Wither the grass, and blast the flower,
That, when their works are all o'erthrown,
The word of grace may stand alone.

Trouble the souls who know not God,
Their careless, Christless spirits wound,
O'erwhelm with their own sinful load,
And all their virtuous pride confound,
Their depth of wickedness reveal,
And shake them o'er the mouth of hell.

Naked and destitute and blind
Themselves let the poor wretches see,
Their total fall lament to find;
Till every mouth is stopp'd by Thee,
And all the world with conscious fe,ar
Guilty before their God appear.

Guilty because they know not Him,
Who lived and died, their souls to save,
Who came His people to redeem:
No part or lot in Christ they have,
Till Thou the painful veil remove,
And show their hearts His dying love.