How short is this momentous hour!
O! how swift the minutes fly!
Soon the Jurors, arm'd with power,
Will come to bid me live or die.

Pointed thoughts of Life and Death,
Anxious sore solicitude,
Shake my frame, suspend my breath,
When Terror's gloomy shades protrude.

But when Hope cheers me with the sound
Of Mercy's voice, of Mercy's plea,
And tells me Mercy will be found
Amongst the twelve to speak for me,

Rapt Fancy hears the Cherub plead: ...
Propitious is the Culprit's fate,
If one, by tender mercy sway'd,
Amongst the Jurors takes his seat.

One who will meek-ey'd Mercy's laws
Oppose to Rigour's doubtful rule ...
Nor quit the hapless Culprit's cause,
Though sterner Judgements deem him fool.

Blessings that wait his heart, his tongue,
Cannot elate his tranquil breast:
He courts no blessing from the throng;
He is, and ever will be, blest.