Lord, remember me. Luke 23:42
Words: Charles Wesley, Hymns and Sacred Poems (Bristol, England: Felix Farley, 1749), Volume 1, number 25.
For a dying, unconverted sinner.
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.