Indexes for The Sacred Harp, 1991 Edition

Will God forever cast us off?
His wrath forever smoke
Against the people of His love,
His little chosen flock.

Think of the tribes so dearly bought
With the Redeemer’s blood,
Nor let Thy Zion be forgot,
Where once Thy glory stood.

Where once Thy churches prayed and sang
Thy foes profanely rage;
Amid Thy gates their ensigns hang,
And there their host engage.

And still to heighten our distress,
Thy presence is withdrawn;
Thy wonted signs of pow’r and grace
Thy pow’r and grace are gone.

No prophet speaks to calm our grief,
But all in silence mourn;
Nor know the hour of our relief,
The hour of Thy return.