How hurtful was the choice of Lot,

Who took up his abode

(Because it was a fruitful spot)

With them who feared not God!

A pris’ner he was quickly made,

Bereaved of all his store;

And, but for Abraham’s timely aid,

He had returned no more.

Yet still he seemed resolved to stay

As if it were his rest;

Although their sins from day to day

His righteous soul distressed.

Awhile he stayed with anxious mind,

Exposed to scorn and strife;

At last he left his all behind,

And fled to save his life.

In vain his sons–in–law he warned,

They thought he told his dreams;

His daughters too, of them had learned,

And perished in the flames.

His wife escaped a little way,

But died for looking back:

Does not her case to pilgrims say,

“Beware of growing slack?”

Yea; Lot himself could ling’ring stand,

Though vengeance was in view;

’Twas mercy plucked him by the hand,

Or he had perished too.

The doom of Sodom wilt be ours

If to the earth we cleave;

Lord quicken all our drowsy pow’rs,

To flee to thee and live.