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Ah ! who so blind as not to read 
A fearful meaning in the deed ? 
On me, on all, a searching eye 
Is bent in awful scrutiny. 
What if within these hearts of ours, 
For fruit, it sees but leaves or flowers? 
Ah ! who may tell how long the doom 
Shall threaten ere its thunders come ! 
Awhile, at Mercy’s earnest suit, 
The voice of Justice may be mute; 
But never will she sheathe her sword, 
While man — the worm — defies the Lord 
Oh ! strong to punish, strong to save ! 
How long shall we Thy fury brave ? 
How long ? — till Thou thyself embue 
Each callous heart with heavenly dew. 
Hast Thou not said, in wilds forlorn 
The myrtle shall supplant the thorn ? 
Fulfil Thy promise, then shall we 
Yield fruits of holiness to Thee! 
