When the great Judge, su­preme and just,
Shall once in­quire for blood,
The hum­ble souls that mourn in dust
Shall find a faith­ful God.

He from the dread­ful gates of death
Does His own child­ren raise;
In Zi­on’s gates, with cheer­ful breath,
They sing their Fa­ther’s praise.

His foes shall fall with heed­less feet
Into the pit they made;
And sin­ners per­ish in the net
That their own hands had spread.

Thus by Thy judg­ments, migh­ty God,
Are Thy deep coun­sels known;
When men of mis­chief are de­stroyed,
The snare must be their own.

The wick­ed shall sink down to hell;
Thy wrath de­vour the lands
That dare for­get Thee, or re­bel
Against Thy known com­mands.

Though saints to sore dis­tress are brought,
And wait and long com­plain,
Their cries shall not be still for­got,
Nor shall their hopes be vain.

Rise, great Re­deem­er, from Thy seat,
To judge and save the poor;
Let na­tions trem­ble at Thy feet,
And man pre­vail no more.

Thy thun­der shall af­fright the proud,
And put their hearts to pain;
Make them con­fess that Thou art God,
And they but fee­ble men.