Classic Poem

O PROPHET , tell me not of peace,
Or Christ's all-loving deeds;
Death only can from sin release,
And death to judgment leads.

Thou from thy birth hast set thy face
Towards thy Redeemer Lord;
To tend and deck His holy place,
And note His secret word.

I ne'er shall reach Heaven's glorious path;
Yet haply tears may stay
The purpose of His instant wrath,
And slake the fiery day.

Then plead for one who cannot pray,
Whose faith is but despair,
Who hates his heart, nor puts away
The sin that rankles there.