The Lord shall come in dead of night,
When all is still­ness round;
How hap­py they whose lamps are bright,
Who hail the trum­pet’s sound.

How blind and dead the world ap­pears,
How deep her slum­bers are,
Still dream­ing that the day she fears
Is dist­ant and afar.

Who spends his day in ho­ly toil,
His tal­ent used aright,
That he may haste, with hea­ven­ly spoil,
To meet his Lord that night?

Are you arous­ing from their sleep,
The saints who dare to rest,
And call­ing ev­ery one to keep
A watch more true and blest?

Wake up! my heart and soul, anew,
Let sleep no mo­ment claim;
But hour­ly watch, as if ye knew
This night the Mas­ter came.