The Lord will come! the earth shall quake,
The hills their fix­èd seat for­sake;
And, wi­ther­ing, from the vault of night
The stars with­draw their fee­ble light.

The Lord will come! but not the same
As once in low­ly form He came,
A si­lent lamb to slaugh­ter led,
The bruis­ed, the suf­fer­ing, and the dead.

The Lord will come! a dread­ful form,
With wreath of flame, and robe of storm,
On che­rub wings, and wings of wind,
Anointed Judge of hu­man­kind!

Can this be He who wont to stray
A pil­grim on the world’s high­way,
By pow­er op­pressed, and mocked by pride?
O God! is this the Cru­ci­fied?

Go, ty­rants! to the rocks comp­lain!
Go, seek the mount­ain’s cleft in vain!
But faith, vic­to­ri­ous o’er the tomb,
Shall sing for joy—the Lord is come!