Go through the midst of the city, through the midst of Jerusalem, and set a mark upon the foreheads of the men that sigh and that cry for all the abominations that be done in the midst thereof. And to the others he said in mine hearing,
Go ye after him through the city, and smite: let not your eye spare, neither have ye pity: Slay utterly old and young, both maids, and little children, and women: but come not near any man upon whom is the mark.
Words: Philip Doddridge (1702–1751). Published posthumously in Hymns Founded on Various Texts in the Holy Scriptures, by Job Orton (Shropshire, England: Joshua Eddowes & John Cotton, 1755), number 140:
Of lamenting national sins.
O righteous God, Thou judge supreme,
We tremble at Thy dreadful name,
And all our crying guilt we own,
In dust and tears before Thy throne.
So manifold our crimes have been,
Such crimson tincture dyes our sin,
That, could we all its horrors know,
Our streaming eyes with blood might flow.
Britain, the land Thine arm hath saved,
That arm most impiously hath braved;
Britain, the isle its God hath loved,
A rebel to that love hath proved.
Estranged from reverential awe,
We trample on Thy sacred law;
And though such wonders grace hath done,
Anew we crucify Thy Son.
Justly might this polluted land
Prove all the vengeance of Thy hand;
And, bathed in Heaven Thy sword might come
To drink our blood, and seal our doom.
Yet hast Thou not a remnant here,
Whose souls are filled with pious fear?
O bring Thy wonted mercy nigh,
While prostrate at Thy feet they lie.
Behold their tears, attend their moan,
Nor turn away their secret groan;
With these we join in humble prayer:
Our nation shield, our country spare.
But if the sentence be decreed,
And our dear native land must bleed,
By Thy sure mark may we be known,
And save in life or death Thy own.