It is the Lord! Be­hold His hand
Outstretched with an af­flict­ive rod;
And hark! a voice goes through the land,
Be still, and know that I am God.

Shall we, like guil­ty Ad­am, hide
In dark­est shades our dark­er fears?
For who His com­ing may abide?
Or who shall stand when He ap­pears?

No—let us throng around His seat;
No—let us meet Him face to face,
Prostrate our spi­rits at His feet,
Confess our sins, and sue for grace.

Who knows but God will hear our cries,
Turn swift de­struc­tion from our path,
Restrain His judg­ments, or chas­tise
In ten­der me­rcy, not in wrath?

He will, He will, for Je­sus pleads;
Let Heav’n and earth His love re­cord;
For us, for us, He in­ter­cedes;
Our help is nigh—it is the Lord!

Into His hands then let us fall,
Come health or sick­ness, life or death;
Whether He send us balm for gall,
Or im­mor­ta­li­ty for breath.