Michael Wigglesworth (1631—1705)
It is put in Execution.
That word “Depart,” maugre their heart,
drives every wicked one,
With mighty pow’r, the self-same hour,
far from the Judge’s Throne.
Away they’re chas’d by the strong blast
of his Death-threat’ning mouth;
They flee full fast, as if in haste,
although they be full loath.
As chaff that’s dry, as dust doth fly
before the Northern wind.
Right so are they chaséd away,
and can no Refuge find.
They hasten to the Pit of Woe,
guarded by Angels stout.
Who to fulfil Christ’s holy Will,
attend this wickéd Rout;
Whom having brought as they are taught,
unto the brink of Hell,
(That dismal place, far from Christ’s face,
where Death and Darkness dwell,
Where God’s fierce Ire kindleth the fire,
and vengeance feeds the flame.
With piles of Wood and Brimstone Flood,
so none can quench the same,)