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BOOK III. 1 STOP, poor sinner ! stop and think, Before you farther go ! Will you sport upon the brink Of everlasting woe ? Once again I charge you, stop ; For unless you warning take, Ere you are aware you drop Into the burning lake.

2 Say, have you an arm like God, That you his will oppose ? Fear you not that iron rod With which he breaks his foes ? Can you stand in that dread day When he judgment shall proclaim, And the earth shall melt away Like wax before the flame ?

3 Pale-faced death will quickly come To drag you to his bar ; Then to hear your awful doom Will fill you with despair : All your sins will round you crowd, Sins of a blood-crimson dye ; Each for vengeance crying loud, And what can you reply ?

4 Though your heart be made of steel, Your forehead lined with brass, God at length will make you feel He will not let you pass : Sinners then in vain will call, (Though they now despise his grace) Rocks and mountains, on us fall, And hide us from his face !

5 But as yet there is a hope You may his mercy know ; Though his arm is lifted up, He still forbears the blow :