Tune--Hamburgh.
[Music]
Oh let the pris'ner's mournful sighs
As incense in thy sight appear!
Their humble wailings pierce the skies,
If haply they may feel thee near.
The captive exiles make their moans,
From sin impatient to be free;
Call home, call home, thy banished ones!
Lead captive their captivity!
Out of the deep regard their cries,
The fallen raise, the mourners cheer,
Oh, Son of Righteousness, arise,
And scatter all their doubts and fear.
Stand by them in the fiery hour,
Their feebleness of mind defend;
And in their weakness show thy power,
And make them patient to the end.
Relieve the souls whose cross we bear,
For whom thy suffering members mourn:
Answer our faith's effectual prayer;
And break the yoke so meekly borne!
Remembering that God is just.
Oh righteous God! whose awful frown
Can crumble nations to the dust,
Trembling we stand before thy throne,
When we reflect that thou art just.
Dost thou not see the dreadful wrong,
Which Afric's injured race sustains?
And wilt thou not arise ere long,
To plead their cause, and break their chains?
Must not thine anger quickly rise
Against the men whom lust controls,
Who dare thy righteous laws despise
And traffic in the blood of souls?