Old-Line Primitive Baptist Hymn and Tune Book

Hymn #754: There Was A Romish Lady Brought Up In Popery

Hymn #753 Hymn #755

Miscellaneous

Image of tune Romish Lady (may not be posted yet)

754 (7.6.7.6.D)

There was a Romish lady brought up in Popery,

Her mother always taught her the priest she must obey;

Oh, pardon me dear mother, I humbly pray thee now,

For unto these false idols I can no longer bow.

Assisted by her handmaid, a Bible she concealed,

And there she gained instruction, 'til God His love revealed;

No more she bows herself down to pictures decked with gold,

But soon she was betrayed, and her Bible from her stole.

I'll bow to my dear Jesus, I'll worship God unseen,

I'll live by faith forever — the works of men are vain.

I cannot worship angels, nor pictures made by men;

Dear mother, use your pleasure, but pardon if you can.

With grief and great vexation, her mother straight did go

T'inform the Roman clergy the cause of all her woe:

The priests were soon assembled, and for the maid did call,

And forced her in the dungeon, to fright her soul withal.

The more they strove to fright her, the more she did endure:

Although her age was tender, her faith was strong and sure.

The chains of gold so costly they from this lady took,

And she with all her spirit the pride of life forsook.

Before the Pope they brought her, in hopes of her return,

And there she was condemnèd in horrid flames to burn.

Before the place of torment they brought her speedily,

With lifted hands to heaven, she then agreed to die.

There being many ladies assembled at the place,

She raised her eyes to heaven, and begged supplying grace.

"Weep not, ye tender ladies, shed not a tear for me:

While my poor body's burning, my soul the Lord shall see.

Yourselves you need to pity, and Zion's deep decay;

Dear ladies, turn to Jesus — no longer make delay."

In comes her raving mother, her daughter to behold,

And in her hand she brought her her pictures decked with gold.

"Oh, take from me these idols — remove them from my sight!

Restore to me my Bible, wherein I take delight!

Alas, my agèd mother, why on my ruin bent?

'Twas you that did betray me, but I am innocent.

Tormentors, use your pleasure, and do as you think best;

I hope my blessèd Jesus will take my soul to rest."

Soon as these words were spoken, up steps the man of death,

And kindled up the fiŕe to stop her mortal breath.

Instead of golden bracelets, with chains they bound her fast;

She cried, "My God, give power — now must I die at last!

With Jesus and His angels forever I shall dwell:

God, pardon priest and people; and so I bid farewell."

Hymn #753 Hymn #755