Great God, thy judgments are supremely right;
Thy joy is ever to forgive and spare:
But such my guilt is, if thy goodness e'er
Me pardon'd, it would wrong thy justice quite.
Yes, Lord, my hold revolts in thy pure sight
Leave power but choice of sufferings to prepare, —
Thine honour must forbid me bliss to share;
Thy very clemency my doom shall write.
Fulfil that doom, which vindicates thy ways;
Reject the tears which from these eyelids start;
Crush; strike; 'tis time; the rebel's course arrest
Lost, thy destroying justice I must praise.
But — on what spot can thy keen lightning dart.
Not laved in life-hlood from my Saviour's breast?
Desbabbeaux (18th century) France
Source: The Foreign Sacred Lyre. Metrical versions of Religious Poetry from the German, French, and Italian, By John Sheppard, Jackson & Wlaford, 1857
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