The Wrath to Come

When first God stirr’d me, and the Church’s word Came as a theme of reverent search and fear, It little cost to own the lustre clear Of truths she taught, and rite and rule she stored; For conscience craved, and reason did accord. Yet one there was that wore a mien austere, And I did doubt, and, startled, ask’d to hear Whose mouth had force to edge so sharp a sword. My mother oped her trust, the holy Book; And heal’d my pang. She pointed, and I found Christ on Himself, considerate Master, took The utterance of that doctrine’s fearful sound. The Fount of Love His servants sends to tell Love’s deeds; Himself reveals the sinner’s hell.