How long shall death, the ty­rant reign,
And tri­umph o’er the just,
While the dear blood of mar­tyrs slain
Lies min­gled with the dust?

When shall the te­di­ous night be gone?
When will our Lord ap­pear?
Our fond de­sires would pray Him down,
Our love em­brace Him here,

Let faith arise, and climb the hills,
And from afar des­cry
How dist­ant are His cha­ri­ot wheels,
And tell how fast they fly.

Lo, I be­hold the scat­ter­ing shades,
The dawn of Heav’n ap­pears,
The sweet im­mor­tal morn­ing spreads
Its blush­es round the spheres,

I see the Lord of glo­ry come,
And flam­ing guards around:
The skies di­vide to make Him room,
The trum­pet shakes the ground.

I hear the voice, Ye dead arise,
And lo, the graves ob­ey,
And wak­ing saints with joy­ful eyes
Salute th’ex­pect­ed day.

They leave the dust, and on the wing
Rise to the mid­dle air,
In shin­ing gar­ments meet their king,
And low ad­ore Him there.

O may my hum­ble spi­rit stand
Amongst them clothed in white!
The mean­est place at His right hand
Is in­fi­nite de­light.

How will our joy and won­der rise,
When our re­turn­ing king
Shall bear us home­ward through the skies
On love’s tri­um­phant wing!