This world is all enchanted ground,
O whither shall I fly?
The vengeful flames are kindling round,
And if I stop, I die.
When some kind hand has brought me forth,
How lingering is my pace!
Lord, either drive me by Thy wrath,
Or draw me by Thy grace.
O let me not a moment waste,
On this destructive plain;
Hence let me flee with greater haste,
Till I the Zoar gain.