1 Lord! where shall guilty souls retire,
Forgotten and unknown?
In hell they meet thy dreadful fire--
In heaven thy glorious throne.

2 If, winged with beams of morning light,
I fly beyond the west,
Thy hand, which must support my flight,
Would soon betray my rest.

3 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.

4 The beams of noon, the midnight hour,
Am both alike to thee:
Oh, may I ne'er provoke that power,
From which I cannot flee.