|Where are the mourners,| saith the Lord,
|That wait and tremble at my word,
That walk in darkness all the day?
Come, make my name your trust and stay.
[|No works nor duties of your own
Can for the smallest sin atone
The robes that nature may provide
Will not your least pollutions hide.
|The softest couch that nature knows
Can give the conscience no repose;
Look to my righteousness and live;
Comfort and peace are mine to give.]
|Ye sons of pride, that kindle coals
With your own hands, to warm your souls
Walk in the light of your own fire,
Enjoy the sparks that ye desire:
|This is your portion at my hands; --
Hell waits you with her iron bands;
Ye shall lie down in sorrow there,
In death, in darkness, and despair.|