Verse 1
The Lord, th’ Almighty Lord of hosts
His own dread purpose hath fulfill’d;
Rebuk’d a sinful nation’s boasts,
That all may see his arm reveal’d;
And Britain humbled in the dust,
Confess his sharpest judgments just.

Verse 2
Righteous, O Lord, thy judgments are!
We bow to thy severe decree,
Who, casting out our formal prayer,
Hast giv’n our foes the victory:
As pleas’d rebellion’s cause to bless,
And crown the wicked with success.

Verse 3
The wicked are thy sword and rod,
Our crimes commission’d to chastise;
Who long have fought against our God,
Provok’d the vengeance of the skies:
Thy threat’nings mock’d, thy favors spurn’d,
Thy blessings into curses turn’d.

Verse 4
Therefore the dire decree takes place,
Abandon’d as to Satan’s power,
A desperate, death-devoted race:
We see the slaughtring sword devour:
Our legions pass beneath the yoke,
Our nation is of God forsook.

Verse 5
Yet if thou hast not fixt our doom,
And sworn, in wrath, no more to spare,
If still there is for mercy room,
For hope, and penitence, and prayer,
Us in our blood once more reprieve,
And bid thy sentenc’d rebels live.

Verse 6
Howe’er the righteous thou conceal,
Or under, or above the skies,
The wicked must thy justice feel;
And never shall Britannia rise,
Unless we to our smiter turn,
And leave the sins for which we mourn.