Behold God’s great incarnate Son
In majesty comes flying down:
Hark! for His trumpet’s awful sound
Awakes the dead, and cleaves the ground.

So solemn shall the judgment be,
And so severe the scrutiny,
That, by his merit tried alone,
The saint himself would be undone.

Where then, ye sons of Belial, where
Will your astonished souls appear?
How will ye shun His piecing sight?
Or how resist His matchless might?

Up to the pointed mountains fly,
And gain the confines of the sky;
There shall ye meet celestial fire,
While mountains melt before His ire.

Call on the rending earth to save,
And in its center search a grave;
The Judge shall well discern thee there,
And drag thee trembling to His bar.

Deck thee around with fraud and lies,
And put on every fair disguise;
Soon shall thy painted form be known
Amidst ten thousand of His own.

Gird thee in arms, His wrath t’oppose,
And league with millions of His foes;
Soon would the rebel band expire
Like crackling thorns amidst the fire.

One only way may yet be found;
Submissive bow ye to the ground:
His cross a refuge will afford
From all the terrors of His sword.