1 Behold God’s great incarnate Son
In majesty comes flying down:
Hark! for His trumpet’s awful sound
Awakes the dead, and cleaves the ground.

2 So solemn shall the judgment be,
And so severe the scrutiny,
That, by his merit tried alone,
The saint himself would be undone.

3 Where then, ye sons of Belial, where
Will your astonished souls appear?
How will ye shun His piecing sight?
Or how resist His matchless might?

4 Up to the pointed mountains fly,
And gain the confines of the sky;
There shall ye meet celestial fire,
While mountains melt before His ire.

5 Call on the rending earth to save,
And in its center search a grave;
The Judge shall well discern thee there,
And drag thee trembling to His bar.

6 Deck thee around with fraud and lies,
And put on every fair disguise;
Soon shall thy painted form be known
Amidst ten thousand of His own.

7 Gird thee in arms, His wrath t’oppose,
And league with millions of His foes;
Soon would the rebel band expire
Like crackling thorns amidst the fire.

8 One only way may yet be found;
Submissive bow ye to the ground:
His cross a refuge will afford
From all the terrors of His sword.