The Terror Of It

Michael Wigglesworth (1631—1705)

CCII.

Oh piercing words, more sharp than swords!
What! to depart from Thee,
Whose face before for evermore
the best of Pleasures be!
What! to depart (unto our smart),
from thee Eternally!
To be for aye banish’d away
with Devils’ company!

CCIII.

What! to be sent to Punishment,
and flames of burning Fire!
To be surrounded, and eke confounded
with God’s revengeful Ire!
What! to abide, not for a tide,
these Torments, but for Ever!
To be releas’d, or to be eas’d,
not after years, but Never!

CCIV.

Oh fearful Doom! now there’s no room
for hope or help at all;
Sentence is past which aye shall last;
Christ will not it recall.
Then might you hear them rend and tear
the Air with their out-cries;
The hideous noise of their sad voice
ascendeth to the Skies.

CCV. 

They wring their hands, their caitiff-hands,
and gnash their teeth for terror;
They cry, they roar for anguish sore,
and gnaw their tongues for horror.
But get away without delay,
Christ pities not your cry;
Depart to Hell, there may you yell,
and roar Eternally.

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