It will not come, it will not come;
They reck not of the flood.
And where­fore with such wea­ry toil
Build up that pile of wood?
How should thine ark e’er reach the sea?
How on this mid­land float­ed be?

The sea’s great gulfs are brok­en up;
Heav’n’s win­dows op­ened are;
For for­ty days the rain pre­vails;
The mount­ains dis­ap­pear.
The faith­less die; the ark, their scorn,
Safe on the flood, their grave, is borne.

Lord, give us will­ing hearts to hear
Not this world’s voice, but Thine,
To fear Thy warn­ings, and to love
Thy means of grace di­vine;
Go in Thine ark, and there abide,
Unscarred by wind and foam­ing tide.

So when ano­ther flood shall come—
Not wa­ter, but of fire—
When in the bil­lo­wy surge of flame,
All na­ture shall expire,
We in Thy heav’n­ly ark may be,
Anchored on Ara­rat with Thee.