⁠Saint Peter then, no thanks to you,
That so you were rid of your fears,
It was Christ's gracious look, I trow,
That made you weep those bitter tears.
The door of mercy is not clos'd,
I may get grace as well as ye,
It is not so as ye suppos'd,
It will be in in spite of thee.
⁠But, wicked wife, it is too late,
Thou should'st have mourn'd upon earth,
Repentance now is out of date:
It should have been before thy death:
Thou mightest then have turned wrath
To mercy then, and mercy great,
But now the Lord is very loth,
And all thy cries not worth a jot.
⁠Ah! Peter, then, what shall I do?
He will not hear me as I hear,
Shall I despair of mercy too!
No, no, I'll trust in mercy dear:
And if I perish, here I'll stay,
And never go from heaven bright:
I'll ever hope and always pray,
Until I get my Saviour's sight.
⁠I think indeed you are now right,
If you had saith you could win in;
Importune then with all your might,
Faith is the feet wherewith ye come:
It is the hands will hold him fast,
But weak faith may not presume;
It will let you sink, and be aghast,
Strongly believe or you're undone.