1 Methinks the last great day is come,
Methinks I hear the trumpet sound
That shakes the earth, rends every tomb,
And wakes the prisoners under ground.

2 The mighty deep gives up her trust,
Aw'd by the Judge's high command;
Both small and great now quit their dust,
And round the dread tribunal stand.

3 Behold the awful books display'd,
Big with th'important fates of men;
Each deed and word now public made,
As wrote by heaven's unerring pen.

4 To every soul, the books assign
The joyous or the dread reward:
Sinners in vain lament and pine,
No plea the Judge will here regard.

5 Lord, when these awful leaves unfold,
May life's fair book my soul approve:
There may I read my name enroll'd,
And triumph in redeeming love.