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 Saint Peter then, no thanks to you, That so you were rid of your fears, It was Christ's gracious look, I trow, That made you weep those bitter tears. The door of mercy is not clos'd, I may get grace as well as ye, It is not so as ye suppos'd, It will be in in spite of thee. But, wicked wife, it is too late, Thou should'st have mourn'd upon earth, Repentance now is out of date: It should have been before thy death: Thou mightest then have turned wrath To mercy then, and mercy great, But now the Lord is very loth, And all thy cries not worth a jot. Ah! Peter, then, what shall I do? He will not hear me as I hear, Shall I despair of mercy too! No, no, I'll trust in mercy dear: And if I perish, here I'll stay, And never go from heaven bright: I'll ever hope and always pray, Until I get my Saviour's sight. I think indeed you are now right, If you had saith you could win in; Importune then with all your might, Faith is the feet wherewith ye come: It is the hands will hold him fast, But weak faith may not presume; It will let you sink, and be aghast, Strongly believe or you're undone.