Classic Poem

Almighty Judge, how shall poor wretches brook
Thy dreadful look,
Able a heart of iron to appal,
When thou shalt call
For ev'ry man's peculiar book?

What others mean to do, I know not well;
Yet I hear tell,
That some will turn thee to some leaves therein
So void of sin,
That they in merit shall excel.

But I resolve, when thou shalt call for mine,
That to decline,
And thrust a Testament into thy hand:
Let that be scanned.
There thou shalt find my faults are thine.