Scripture Verse

Lord, remember me. Luke 23:42


Charles Wesley (1707–1788)

Words: Charles Wes­ley, Hymns and Sac­red Po­ems (Bris­tol, Eng­land: Fe­lix Far­ley, 1749), Volume 1, num­ber 25. For a dy­ing, un­convert­ed sin­ner.

Music: Fran­ces James Mc­Gra­na­han, 1901 (🔊 pdf nwc).

Alternate Tunes:

James McGranahan (1840–1907)



Now, sin­ner, now what is thy hope?
Canst thou with con­fi­dence look up
And see the an­gel nigh?
Is death a mes­sen­ger of peace?
And dost thou long for thy re­lease?
And art thou fit to die?

Say, if pre­pared for death thou art,
What means that fal­tering of thy heart,
That in­ly sti­fled groan?
Why shrinks thy soul with guil­ty fear,
And loud­ly warns of judg­ment near,
Starts from a God un­known?

Whither, ah! whi­ther must thou go?
Poor dy­ing wretch, thou dost not know,
Doubtful so near thine end;
Doubtful with whom thou first shall meet,
Who first thy part­ing soul shall greet,
An an­gel, or a fiend?

Where wilt thou ease, or com­fort take?
Now to thy harm­less life look back,
From out­ward vice so free;
Bring all thy works, and seem­ing good
To bal­ance with thy guil­ty load,
And let them plead for thee.

Alas! they can­not buy thy peace,
The rags of thy own right­eous­ness
They can­not screen thy shame:
Full of all in­ward sin thou art,
Anger, and lust, and pride of heart;
And Legion is thy name.

Now let thy best en­dea­vors plead,
Now lean up­on that fee­ble reed,
Thou who hast lived so well!
Thy dy­ing weight it can­not bear
But breaks, and leaves thee to des­pair,
And lets thee sink to hell.

Now wilt thou mock the sons of God,
Who felt the Sav­ior’s sprin­kled blood,
And owned their sins for­giv’n?
Tell them, their peace they can­not feel,
The glo­ri­ous hope, the Spir­it’s seal,
The an­te­past of Heav’n.

Hast thou re­ceived the Ho­ly Ghost?
Poor Christ­less soul, un­done and lost,
Already damned thou art;
Now tell thy Lord, It can­not be,
He did not buy the grace for thee
To dwell with­in thy heart.

His in­spi­ra­tion now blas­pheme,
And call it all a mad­man’s dream,
That God in man should dwell;
Th’en­thu­si­as­tic scheme ex­plode,
That souls should here be filled with God;
Go laugh at saints in hell!

Ah! no; thy laugh­ter ceas­es there,
Doomed with apos­tate fiends to share
The un­be­liev­er’s hire;
There thou shalt die the se­cond death,
And gnaw thy tongue, and gnash thy teeth,
And wel­ter in that fire.

Alas! thy gra­cious day is past:
The wrath is come: what hope at last
The sen­tence to re­peal?
No long­er thy dam­na­tion sleeps,
The soul from off thy qui­ver­ing lips
Is star­ing in­to hell.

But if thou no­thing hast to plead,
Behold in this thy great­est need,
An ad­vo­cate is nigh:
Ask Him to un­der­take thy cause,
The Man that hung up­on the cross,
And deigned for thee to die.

See Him be­tween the dy­ing thieves—
His grace the part­ing soul re­lieves,
E’en at its lat­est hour;
Ask, and His grace shall reach to thee,
“Jesus, my king, re­mem­ber me,
Display Thy mer­cy’s pow­er.

Thee for my Lord and God I own,
With pi­ty see me from Thy throne,
And though my bo­dy dies,
My soul, if Thou Thy Spir­it give,
My hap­py soul to­day shall live,
With Thee in pa­ra­dise.