The Lord has come down in a cha­ri­ot of cloud,
The trum­pet is peal­ing por­tent­ous and loud;
Majestic He rides on the wings of the wind,
And bears His dread mes­sage of wrath to man­kind.

He com­eth! He com­eth! the mount­ain it quakes,
The voice of His thun­der each ec­ho awakes;
The my­ri­ads of Is­ra­el are heard to im­plore,
That ac­cents of ter­ror be spok­en no more.

The black­ness, and dark­ness, and tem­pest,are past!
But lin­gers no mes­sage of love in the blast?
Oh! hark we in vain for some pi­ty­ing voice,
To bid the de­spond­ing take hope and re­joice?

It speaks! but it is not from Si­nai’s dread form,
Emblazoned in light­ning, and cur­tained in storm;
From Cal­va­ry’s sum­mit the word is ad­dressed,
Come, weary and la­den, to Me and find rest.

Jehovah’s per­fect­ions ex­ult­ing have met,
The Sure­ty has suf­fered—dis­charged is the debt;
And jus­tice and mer­cy unite to pro­claim
Salvation to sin­ners through faith in His name.

No more on the law shall I seek to re­ly,
Appalled by its man­date, Ob­ey Me, or die;
All, all that I need, my dear Sav­ior can give;
How gra­cious His mes­sage—Be­lieve Me, and live!