The day of the Lord is at hand, at hand;
The storms roll up the sky;
A na­tion sleeps starv­ing on heaps of gold;
All dream­ers toss and sigh;
When the pain is sor­est, the child is born,
The night is dark­est before the morn;
And the day of the Lord is at hand, at hand,
The day of the Lord is at hand.

Gather you, ga­ther you, an­gels of God,
Chivalry, jus­tice and truth;
Come, for the earth is grown cow­ard and old;
Come down and re­new us her youth!
Freedom, self-sac­ri­fice, mer­cy and love,
Haste to the bat­tle­field, stoop from above
For the day of the Lord is at hand, at hand,
The day of the Lord is at hand.

Gather you, ga­ther you, hounds of hell—
Famine, and plague and war;
Idleness, bi­got­ry, cant and mis­rule,
Gather—and fall in the snare!
Hirelings and Mam­mon­ites, pe­dants and knaves,
Crawl to the bat­tle, or sneak to your graves,
Now the day of the Lord is at hand,
The day of the Lord is at hand.

Who would sit down and whine for a lost age of gold,
While the Lord of all ag­es is here?
True hearts will leap at the trum­pet of God,
And those who can suf­fer can dare.
Each old age of gold was an ir­on age, too,
And the meek­est of saints may find stern work to do
In the day of the Lord at hand, at hand,
In the day of the Lord at hand.