Behold God’s great in­car­nate Son
In ma­jes­ty comes fly­ing don:
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, here
Will your as­ton­ished souls ap­pear?
How will ye shun His pierc­ing sight?
Or who 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 on.

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.