In the crim­son blush of morn­ing,
In the glit­ter of the noon,
In the mid­night’s gloomy dark­ness,
Or the gleam­ing of the moon,
In the still­ness of the twilight,
As it shim­mers in the sky,
We are watch­ing, we are wait­ing
For the end that draw­eth nigh.

We shall see Him in His splen­dor
And amid a count­less throng,
On the clouds to earth des­cend­ing
With a move­ment swift and strong;
And the ang­els round about Him,
In their daz­zling white ar­ray,
While be­fore Him sounds the sum­mons
For the fi­nal judg­ment day.

And the trum­pet’s peal­ing clang­or
Will ap­pal­ling ter­rors spread;
It will break the sleep of ag­es,
And will rouse the sheet­ed dead;
Waxing loud and ev­er loud­er,
It will pierce to ev­ery tomb;
It will call the saints to glo­ry,
And the si­nners to their doom.

He will wel­come all His people,
He will dia­dem His own;
He will show to them His glo­ry,
And will share with them His throne;
And for­ev­er in His pre­sence
They shall see Him face to face,
While they chant His match­less wis­dom,
And ex­tol His won­drous grace.

He is com­ing, sure­ly com­ing,
For His pro­mise can­not fail;
And the scof­fers shall be­hold Him,
And be­fore Him they shall quail!
He is com­ing, quick­ly com­ing!
But His com­ing we shall greet,
We have wait­ed for His ad­vent,
And have list­ened for His feet.