Lord, when Thine Israel we survey,
We in their crimes discern our own;
And if Thou turn our prayer away,
Our misery must, like theirs, be known.
To us Thy prophets have been sent
With words of terror and of love;
But nor the vengeance, nor the grace,
Ten thousand stubborn hearts will move.
Our eyes are blind, and deaf our ears;
Our hearts are hardened into stone;
As we would bar Thy mercy out,
And leave a way for wrath alone.
Justly our God might give us up
To plague and famine and the sword;
Till towns and cities, rich and fair,
Lay desolate without a Lord.
O’er bleeding wounds of slaughtered friends
Rivers of helpless grief might flow,
Till the fierce conqueror’s haughty rage
Dragged us to chains and slaughter, too.
But spare a nation long Thine own,
And show new miracles of grace,
’Tis Thine to heal the deaf and blind,
And wake the dead to life and praise.