On Good-friday

When rising from the bed of death, O'erwhelm'd with guilt and fear, I see my maker face to face, Oh how shall I appear.

If yet while thy great mercy may, Successfully be sought, My heart with inward horror shrinks, And trembles at the thought.

But thou hast told afflicted minds, Their sins when they lament, The timely tribute of their tears, Shall endless woes prevent.

Then view the sorrows of my mind; Behold my contrite state; And hear my saviour's dying groans, To give those sorrows weight.

For never shall my soul despair, Its pardon to secure, That knows the Son of God has died, To make that pardon sure.