The last loud trum­pet’s won­drous sound
Shall through the rend­ing tombs r­ebound,
And wake the na­tions un­der ground;
Nature and death shall with sur­prise
Behold the pale of­fend­ers rise,
And view the Judge with con­scious eyes.

Then shall, with un­ivers­al dread,
The sac­red mys­tic book be read,
To try the liv­ing and the dead.
The Judge as­cends His aw­ful throne,
He makes each sec­ret sin be known,
And all with shame con­fess their own.

Oh, then, what in­terest shall I make,
With whom shall I my re­fuge take,
When the most just have cause to quake;
Thou migh­ty, for­mid­able King,
Thou mer­cy’s un­ex­haust­ed spring,
Some com­fort­able pi­ty bring.

Thou who for me didst feel such pain,
Whose pre­cious blood the cross did stain,
Let not those ago­nies be in vain;
Forget not what my ran­som cost,
Nor let my dear-bought soul be lost,
In storms of guil­ty ter­ror tossed.

Give my ex­alt­ed soul a place
Among Thy chos­en right-hand race,
The sons of God, and heirs of grace;
Trembling be­fore Thy throne I bend
My God, my Fa­ther, and my friend,
Do not for­sake me in the end.