And we ourselves deprive of joys, which otherwise were ours.
Poor, wretched, miserable and blind, how vain our boastings all;
Our misspent moments, worse than lost, we never can recall.
The good we might have done, had we obeyed each precept given,
Will be a blank, and less will be our crowns of joy in Heaven.
Why wound our souls? Why take the gall perverted tastes to please,
When nought but Jesus’ dying blood, God’s anger can appease?
Like Peter we deny our Lord, and spurn his tender care;
Such base ingratitude as this, who but a God could bear?
Most deeply must we feel and weep, ere Christ will on us look,