COME, O my soul, thy certain ruin trace,
If thou neglect a Saviour’s offered grace;
Infinite years in torment thou must spend,
Which never, never, never have an end.
Yes, thou must spend in torturing despair
As many years as atoms in the air.
When these are spent, as many moments more
As grains of sand upon the ebbing shore.
When these are gone, as many to ensue
As blades of grass or drops of morning dew.
When these have fled, as many yet behind
As forest leaves when shaken by the wind.
When these are spent, as many millions more
As moments in the millions spent before.
When all these doleful years are spent in pain,
And multiplied by myriads again,
Till numbers drown the thought, could I suppose
That then thy wretched years were at a close,
That would afford some ease, but oh, I shiver
And tremble at that awful word, Forever!