Stop, poor sinner, stop and think,

Before you further go;

Will you sport upon the brink

Of everlasting woe!

On the verge of ruin stop—

Now the friendly warning take—

Stay your footsteps—ere you drop

Into the burning lake.

2 Say, have you an arm like God,

That you his will oppose?

Fear ye not that iron rod

With which he breaks his foes?

Can you stand in that dread day

Which his justice shall proclaim—

When the earth shall melt away

Like wax before the flame?

3 Ghastly death will quickly come,

And drag you to his bar;

Then, to hear your awful doom,

Will fill you with despair!

All your sins will round you crowd—

You shall mark their crimson dye—

Each for vengeance crying loud;

And what can you reply?

4 Though your heart were 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—

Those who now despise his grace—

“Rocks and mountains, on us fall,

And hide us from his face.”