Fearful thought of end­less doom—
Skies are rent, the Judge is come;
Clouds His throne; around Him stand
Angel guards, a count­less band.

Hear the voice from shore to shore,
Tells that time shall be no more;
See the dead from dust arise,
Summoned to the great as­size.

On His right are placed the just,
To the left the wick­ed thrust;
Well to Him are sin­ners known—
Known, but se­vered from His own.

These a blest re­treat have won,
Earth’s de­lights who learned to shun;
Chose af­flict­ion, pain and loss,
Followed Him who bore the cross.

Cross, from which the He­brew turned,
Cross, by haugh­ty Gen­tiles spurned;
Thee with joy the right­eous see,
But the lost with ago­ny.

Deeper still their shame and dread,
Seeing Him whose blood they shed;
Lord, from sin Thy peo­ple keep,
Lest its dread­ful fruit they reap.

Mingling joy with ho­ly fear,
Praise we Him whose day is near;
Bless alike the Fa­ther’s name,
And the Spir­it’s praise pro­claim.