The ga­ther­ing clouds, with as­pect dark,
A ris­ing storm pre­sage;
Oh! to be hid with­in the ark,
And shel­tered from its rage!

See the com­mis­sioned an­gel frown!
That vi­al in his hand,
Filled with fierce wrath, is pour­ing down
Upon our guil­ty land!

Ye saints, unite in wrest­ling pray­er;
If yet there may be hope;
Who knows but Mer­cy yet may spare,
And bid the an­gel stop?

Already is the plague begun,
And fired with hos­tile rage;
Brethren, by blood and in­ter­est one,
With breth­ren now en­gage.

Peace spreads her wings, pre­pared for flight,
And war, with flam­ing sword,
And has­ty strides draws nigh, to fight
The bat­tles of the Lord.

The first alarm, alas, how few,
While dist­ant, seem to hear!
But they will hear, and trem­ble too,
When God shall send it near.

So thun­der, o’er the dist­ant hills,
Gives but a mur­mu­ring sound,
But as the tem­pest spreads, it fills,
And shakes the sky around.

May we, at least, with one con­sent,
Fall low be­fore the throne
With tears the na­tion’s sins la­ment,
The Church’s, and our own.

The hum­ble souls who mourn and pray,
The Lord ap­proves and knows;
His mark se­cures them in the day
When ven­geance strikes His foes.