When So­dom’s sin, an aw­ful cry,
Had reached Je­ho­vah’s ear,
Vindictive wrath was wont to fly,
But right­eous Lot was there.

This chos­en saint, that God ap­proved,
When wrath and ter­ror flies,
Shall from de­struc­tion be re­moved,
And live when So­dom dies.

Zoar, the spot or­dained of God,
To which the saint must flee,
Stands as a type of Je­sus’ blood,
That sets the guil­ty free.

But why should Heav’n’s in­dul­gent care,
Amidst the ge­ne­ral woe,
A sin­gle saint, a sin­ner spare,
Whose heart was loath to go?

Haste hi­ther, haste, the an­gel calls,
The ci­ty’s full in view;
Till thou art safe with­in her walls,
Thy God can no­thing do.

Herein dis­crim­in­at­ing grace
Shone with re­ful­gent ray,
Though he was loath to quit the place.
It made him haste away.

For sins, as black as So­dom’s were,
There’s par­don with our God;
Large as His ten­der mer­cies are,
And rich as Je­sus’ blood.