Yes, though He well may tremble at the sound
Of his own voice, who from the judgment-seat
Sends the pale Convict to his last retreat
In death; though Listeners shudder all around,
They know the dread requital’s source profound;
Nor is, they feel, its wisdom obsolete
(Would that it were!) the sacrifice unmeet
For Christian Faith. But hopeful signs abound;
The social rights of man breathe purer air,
Religion deepens her preventive care;
Then, moved by needless fear of past abuse,
Strike not from Law’s firm hand that awful rod,
But leave it thence to drop for lack of use:
Oh, speed the blessed hour, Almighty God!
Read all of William Wordsworth's poems · About William Wordsworth
More by William Wordsworth
- Sonnets Upon The Punishment Of Death - In Series, 1839 - XIV - Apology
- Sonnets Upon The Punishment Of Death - In Series, 1839 – II - Tenderly Do We Feel By Nature's Law
- Sonnets Upon The Punishment Of Death - In Series, 1839 – III - The Roman Consul Doomed His Sons To Die
- Sonnets Upon The Punishment Of Death - In Series, 1839 – IV - Is 'Death', When Evil Against Good Has Fought
- Sonnets Upon The Punishment Of Death - In Series, 1839 – V - Not To The Object Specially Designed
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