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.