Mercy

O sweet — attentive to the pray'r, Ye forward hope and stave despair; Thro' Christ his blood divinely spill'd, Tremendous ruin to rebuild.

Tho' high above the great and just, Yet thou descendest to the dust; Both to the sovereign and the slave, Nor quitt'st the monument and grave.

O let me like the righteous die, And so I shall if thou art by! The viol in thy hand uprears My Saviour's blood, my Saviour's tears.

Come, Cherub, come, possess my soul, All wrath and bitterness controul; If thou thy charming pow'rs bestow, I'll shew thee to my veriest foe.