|Location in The Sacred Harp|
Will God for ever cast us off?
His wrath for ever smoke
Against the people of his love,
His little chosen flock?
Mear 49b, Stanza 1
Will God Forever Cast Us Off? (Mear) 49b, Stanza 1
Think of the tribes so dearly bought
With their Redeemer’s blood;
Nor let thy Sion be forgot,
Where once thy glory stood.
Mear 49b, Stanza 2
Lift up thy feet, and march in haste,
Aloud our ruin calls;
See what a wide and fearful waste
Is made within thy walls.
Where once thy churches pray’d and sang,
Thy foes profanely roar:
Over thy gates their ensigns hang,
Sad tokens of their pow’r.
Mear 49b, Stanza 3
Will God Forever Cast Us Off? (Mear) 49b, Stanza 2
How are the seats of worship broke!
They tear thy buildings down,
And he that deals the heaviest stroke,
Procures the chief renown.
With flames they threaten to destroy
Thy children in their nest;
“Come, let us burn at once they cry,
“The temple and the priest.”
And still to heighten our distress,
Thy presence is withdrawn;
Thy wonted signs of pow’r and grace,
Thy pow’r and grace are gone.
Mear 49b, Stanza 4
No prophet speaks to calm our woes,
But all the seers mourn;
There’s not a soul amongst us knows
The time of thy return.
Mear 49b, Stanza 5
Will God Forever Cast Us Off? (Mear) 49b, Stanza 3
How long, eternal God, how long,
Shall men of pride blaspheme!
Shall saints be made their endless song,
And bear immortal shame?
Canst thou for ever fit and hear
Thine holy name profan’d?
And still thy jealousy forbear,
And still with-hold thine hand?
What strange deliv’rance hast thou shown
In ages long before?
And now no other God we own,
No other God adore.
Thou didst divide the raging sea
By thy resistless might,
To make thy tribes a wondrous way,
And then secure their flight.
Is not the world of nature thine,
The darkness and the day?
Didst not thou bid the morning shine,
And mark the sun his way?
Hath not thy pow’r form’d ev’ry coast,
And set the earth its bounds,
With summer’s heat, and winter’s frost,
In their perpetual rounds?
And shall the sons of earth and dust
That sacred pow’r blaspheme!
Will not thy hand that form’d them first,
Avenge thine injur’d name?
Think on the cov’nant thou hast made,
And all thy words of love;
Nor let the birds of prey invade,
And vex thy mourning dove.
Our foes would triumph in our blood,
And make our hope their jest;
Plead thy own cause, almighty God,
And give thy children rest.
Will God Forever Cast Us Off? (Mear) 49b, Stanza 4