He is coming, He is coming,
Not as once He came before,
Wailing Infant born in weakness
On a lowly stable floor;
But upon His cloud of glo­ry,
In the crimson tinted sky,
Where we see the golden sunrise,
In the rosy distance lie.

He is coming, He is coming,
Not in pain, and shame, and woe,
With the thorn crown on His forehead,
And the blood drops trickling slow;
But with diadem upon Him,
And the scepter in His hand,
And the dead all ranged before Him,
Raised from death, hell, sea and land.

He is coming, He is coming,
Not as once He wandered through
All the hostile land of Judah,
With His followers poor and few;
But with all the holy angels
Waiting round His judg­ment seat,
And the chosen twelve Apostles,
Sitting crownèd at His feet.

He is coming, He is coming,
Let His lowly first estate,
And His tender love, so teach us
That in faith and hope we wait,
Till in glo­ry eastward burning,
Our re­demp­tion draweth near,
And we see the sign in heaven
Of our judge and Sav­ior dear.