With great and aw­ful pow­er,
Jesus, the Judge, shall come,
To bid His foes de­part,
And take His child­ren home;
How will the wick­ed quake and fear,
When they be­fore Him must ap­pear.

He comes, the world to judge,
Nor will He take a bribe;
His wrath none can es­cape,
But His be­lov­èd bride;
Millions will un­to mount­ains call,
To hide them and up­on them fall.

Poor soul, what is thy hope?
On what dost thou de­pend?
Art thou a strang­er still
To Christ, the sin­ner’s Friend?
Soon thou must leave thy all be­low,
And then, O then, what wilt thou do?

Christians, lift up your heads;
Say, what has Je­sus done?
His match­less grace to you
The Sav­ior has made known;
Yes, you shall all His glo­ry see,
And from the se­cond death be free.