Thou hast no lightnings, O thou Just! Or I their force should know; And, if thou strike me into dust, My soul approves the blow. | The heart, that values less its ease Than it adores thy ways, In thine avenging anger sees A subject of its praise. | Pleased I could lie, concealed and lost, In shades of central night; Not to avoid thy wrath, thou know'st, But lest I grieve thy sight. | Smite me, O thou, whom I provoke! And I will love thee still: The well deserved and righteous stroke Shall please me, though it kill. | Am I not worthy to sustain The worst thou canst devise; And dare I seek thy throne again, And meet thy sacred eyes? | Far from afflicting, thou art kind; And, in my saddest hours, An unction of thy grace I find, Pervading all my powers. | Alas! thou sparest me yet again; And, when thy wrath should move, Too gentle to endure my pain, Thou soothest me with thy love. | I have no punishment to fear; But, ah! that smile from thee Imparts a pang far more severe Than woe itself would be. | |