He comes! He comes! to judge the world,
Aloud th’arch­an­gel cries!
While thun­ders roll from pole to pole,
And light­nings cleave the skies.

Th’af­fright­ed na­tions hear the sound,
And up­ward lift their eyes;
The slum­ber­ing ten­ants of the ground
In liv­ing ar­mies rise.

Amid the shouts of nu­mer­ous friends,
Of hosts di­vin­ely bright,
The Judge in so­lemn pomp des­cends,
Arrayed in robes of light.

His head and hairs are white as snow,
His eyes a fie­ry flame,
A ra­di­ant crown adorns His brow,
And Je­sus is His name.

Writ on His thigh His name ap­pears,
And scars His vic­to­ries tell:
Lo! in His hand the Con­quer­or bears
The keys of death and hell.

So He as­cends the judg­ment seat,
And, at His dread com­mand,
Myriads of crea­tures round His feet
In so­lemn si­lence stand.

Princes and pea­sants here ex­pect
Their last, their right­eous doom;
The men who dared His grace re­ject,
And they who dared pre­sume.

Depart, ye sons of vice and sin,
The in­jured Je­sus cries!
While the long kind­ling wrath with­in
Flashes from both His eyes.

And now, in words di­vine­ly sweet,
With rap­ture in His face,
Aloud His sac­red lips re­peat
The sen­tence of His grace:

Well done, my good and faith­ful sons,
The child­ren of My love!
Receive the scep­ters, crowns and thrones
Prepared for you above.