Holy Willie’s Prayer by Robert Burns

O THOU, who in the heavens does dwell,Who, as it pleases best Thysel’,Sends ane to heaven an’ ten to hell,A’ for Thy glory,And no for ony gude or illThey’ve done afore Thee!

I bless and praise Thy matchless might,When thousands Thou hast left in night,That I am here afore Thy sight,For gifts an’ graceA burning and a shining lightTo a’ this place.

What was I, or my generation,That I should get sic exaltation,I wha deserve most just damnationFor broken laws,Five thousand years ere my creation,Thro’ Adam’s cause?

When frae my mither’s womb I fell,Thou might hae plunged me in hell,To gnash my gums, to weep and wail,In burnin lakes,Where damned devils roar and yell,Chain’d to their stakes.

Yet I am here a chosen sample,To show thy grace is great and ample;I’m here a pillar o’ Thy temple,Strong as a rock,A guide, a buckler, and example,To a’ Thy flock.

O L⁠—d, Thou kens what zeal I bear,When drinkers drink, an’ swearers swear,An’ singin there, an’ dancin here,Wi’ great and sma’;For I am keepit by Thy fearFree frae them a’.

But yet, O L⁠—d! confess I must,At times I’m fash’d wi’ fleshly lust:An’ sometimes, too, in wardly trust,Vile self gets in:But Thou remembers we are dust,Defil’d wi’ sin.

O L⁠—d! yestreen, Thou kens, wi’ Meg⁠—Thy pardon I sincerely beg,O! may’t ne’er be a livin plagueTo my dishonour,An’ I’ll ne’er lift a lawless legAgain upon her.

Besides, I farther maun allow,Wi’ Leezie’s lass, three times I trow⁠—But L⁠—d, that Friday I was fou,When I cam near her;Or else, Thou kens, Thy servant trueWad never steer her.

Maybe Thou lets this fleshly thornBuffet Thy servant e’en and morn,Lest he owre proud and high shou’d turn,That he’s sae gifted:If sae, Thy han’ maun e’en be borne,Until Thou lift it.

L⁠—d, bless Thy chosen in this place,For here Thou hast a chosen race:But G⁠—d confound their stubborn face,An’ blast their name,Wha bring Thy elders to disgraceAn’ public shame.

L⁠—d, mind Gaw’n Hamilton’s deserts;He drinks, an’ swears, an’ plays at cartes,Yet has sae mony takin arts,Wi’ great and sma’,Frae G⁠—d’s ain priest the people’s heartsHe steals awa.

An’ when we chasten’d him therefor,Thou kens how he bred sic a splore,An’ set the warld in a roarO’ laughing at us;⁠—Curse Thou his basket and his store,Kail an’ potatoes.

L⁠—d, hear my earnest cry and pray’r,Against that Presbyt’ry o’ Ayr;Thy strong right hand, L⁠—d, make it bareUpo’ their heads;L⁠—d visit them, an’ dinna spare,For their misdeeds.

O L⁠—d, my G⁠—d! that glib-tongu’d Aiken,My vera heart and flesh are quakin,To think how we stood sweatin’, shakin,An’ p⁠—’d wi’ dread,While he, wi’ hingin lip an’ snakin,Held up his head.

L⁠—d, in Thy day o’ vengeance try him,L⁠—d, visit them wha did employ him,And pass not in Thy mercy by ’em,Nor hear their pray’r,But for Thy people’s sake, destroy ’em,An’ dinna spare.

But, L⁠—d, remember me an’ mineWi’ mercies temp’ral an’ divine,That I for grace an’ gear may shine,Excell’d by nane,And a’ the glory shall be thine,Amen, Amen!