Yet thou regard'st the man that stands in awe,
Of thy dread works, and trembles at thy law; 215
The contrite humble spirit, who doth bear
Love undissembled mix'd with faith sincere;
And when he feels himself by thee inspir’d,
To purer thoughts, to worthier actions fir'd,
The worm, weak otherwise, becomes august, 220
And lays the machinations of his foe in dust.
In anger through the land thou oft dost go,
And in thy chariots of salvation too.
Oft in thy visits made from vice unkind,
Plague flies before, while famine stalks behind. 225
'Gainst vice with terror though thou art endu'd,
Yet thou art full of mercy to the good.
Can the meek Mother, whom affection tillid,
Be with relentless enmity instilld,
Against the little darling whom she bred, 230
Reard in her arms, and with her bosom fed?
Yes, the meek mother, whom affection fillid,
Can be with ruthless enmity instill’d,