6 Lord, where shall guilty souls retire, Forgotten and unknown? In hell they meet thy dreadful fire, In heaven thy glorious throne.
7 Should I suppress my vital breath To 'scape the wrath divine, Thy voice would break the bars of death, And make the grave resign.
8 If wing'd with beams of morning light, I fly beyond the west, Thy hand, which must support my flight, Would soon betray my rest.
9 If o'er my sins I think to draw The curtains of the night, Those flaming eyes that guard thy law Would turn the shades to light.
10 The beams of noon, the midnight hour, Are both alike to thee: O may I ne'er provoke that power From which I cannot flee!