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Poem by John Newton
Poor sinners! little do they think With whom they have to do! But stand securely on the brink Of everlasting woe. Belshazzar thus, profanely bold, The Lord of hosts defied; But vengeance soon his boasts controlled, And humbled all his pride. He saw a hand upon the wall And trembled on his throne Which wrote his sudden dreadful fall In characters unknown. Why should he tremble at the view Of what he could not read? Foreboding conscience quickly knew His ruin was decreed. See him o'erwhelmed with deep distress! His eyes with anguish roll; His looks, and loosened joints, express The terrors of his soul. His pomp and music, guests and wine, No more delight afford; O sinner, ere this case be thine, Begin to seek the Lord. The law like this hand-writing stands, And speaks the wrath of God; But Jesus answers its demands, And cancels it with blood. Olney Hymn # 74, vol. 1.
John Newton's other poems:
English Poetry. E-mail firstname.lastname@example.org