English Poets of the Eighteenth Century · Chapter 68John Newton
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In evil long I took delight, Unawed by shame or fear, Till a new object struck my sight, And stopped my wild career; I saw One hanging on a Tree In agonies and Blood, Who fixed His languid eyes on me, As near His cross I stood.
Sure never till my latest breath Can I forget that look: It seemed to charge me with His death, Though not a word he spoke: My conscience felt and owned the guilt, And plunged me in despair; I saw my sins His blood had spilt, And helped to nail Him there.
Alas! I know not what I did! But now my tears are vain: Where shall my trembling soul be hid? For I the Lord have slain! A second look He gave, which said, 'I freely all forgive; The blood is for thy ransom paid; I die, that thou may'st live.'
Thus, while His death my sin displays In all its blackest hue, Such is the mystery of grace, It seals my pardon too. With pleasing grief and mournful joy, My spirit now is filled That I should such a life destroy,— Yet live by Him I killed.