Michael Wigglesworth (1631—1705)
Wicked men and Devils cast into it forever.
With Iron bands they bind their hands
and curséd feet together,
And cast them all, both great and small,
into that Lake forever,
Where day and night, without respite,
they wail, and cry and howl,
For tort’ring pain which they sustain,
in Body and in Soul.
For day and night, in their despite,
their torment’s smoke ascendeth.
Their pain and grief have no relief,
their anguish never endeth.
There must they lie and never die,
though dying every day;
There must they dying ever lie,
and not consume away.
Die fain they would if die they could,
but Death will not be had;
God’s direful wrath their bodies hath
forev’r immortal made.
They live to lie in misery,
and bear eternal woe;
And live they must whilst God is just,
that he may plague them so.
The unsufferable torments of the Damned.
But who can tell the plagues of Hell,
and torments exquisite?
Who can relate their dismal state,
and terrors infinite?
Who fare the best and feel the least,
yet feel that punishment
Whereby to nought they would be brought
if God did not prevent.
The least degree of misery
there felt is incomparable;
The lightest pain they there sustain
is more than intolerable.
But God’s great pow’r from hour to hour
upholds them in the fire,
That they shall not consume a jot
nor by its force expire.