How hurtful was the choice of Lot,
Who took up his abode
(Because it was a fruitful spot)
With them who feared not God! A prisoner he was quickly made,
Bereaved of all his store;
And, but for Abraham’s timely aid,
He had returned no more. Yet still he seemed resolved to stay
As if it were his rest;
Although their sins from day to day
His righteous soul distressed. Awhile he stayed with anxious mind,
Exposed to scorn and strife;
At last he left his all behind,
And fled to save his life. In vain his sons-in-law he warned,
They thought he told his dreams;
His daughters too, of them had learned,
And perished in the flames. His wife escaped a little way,
But died for looking back:
Does not her case to pilgrims say,
“Beware of growing slack?” Yea; Lot himself could ling’ring stand,
Though vengeance was in view;
’Twas mercy plucked him by the hand,
Or he had perished too. The doom of Sodom wilt be ours
If to the earth we cleave;
Lord, quicken all our drowsy pow’rs,
To flee to Thee and live. |
