Wesley Corpus

Not but thou read'st our thankful heart, Thankful that thou hast took our part, And sav'd the sinful land; Thou hast preserv'd the best of kings, And shadow'd with thy mercy's wings The man of thy right-hand. Yet must we, Lord, with shame confess, Nor for our nation's righteousness, Hast thou deliverance sent, But grantest us a longer space, To try, if those who scorn'd thy grace, Will now at last repent. Thou hast not dropp'd thy quarrel, Lord, Thou hast not from the threatning sword Revok'd its charge to kill: Thine anger is not turn'd away, Thy justice still demands its prey, Thine hand is stretch'd out still. Conqu'rors of our intestine foes, We spurn the authors of our woes; But can our tears be dry While just necessity commands, And slaughter'd by fraternal hands, Whole troops of Britons die! Thousands to their account are fled With all their sins upon their head, (Sins against man and God:) Their lives are lost to ransom ours: And still the sword abroad devours, And thirsts for nobler blood. Page 12 4Ori., "E're"; but clearly used in sense of "before." 5Ori., "E're"; but clearly used in sense of "before." The man who sits on the red horse, Holds on his bloody rapid course, And peace from earth destroys; And O! What crouds of Britain's sons, Have own'd his power in dying groans, And answer'd to his voice! O might we mercy seek and find, Ere4 yet he calls the man behind, Who rides the sable steed; Ere5 yet the meagre form appears, With a long train of dearthy years, And famine lifts his head. Before with fruitless horror we The man on the pale courser see, And feel his blasting breath, Jesus, regard the nation's cry, Reverse our doom, nor let us die The pestilential death. O might we all to thee submit And fall, and kiss thy bleeding feet, And own thee for our King, Bright in thy glorious image rise, And rapt at last above the skies, Thine endless praises sing.