1 Lo, He comes, the King of glory,
See, He rends the yielding sky;
Heav’nly flaming guards attend Him,
And the fearful lightnings fly:
Awful grandeur,
Sinner, now thy doom is nigh!

2 Earth and elements dissolving,
Orbs of light their luster lose;
The dread trumpets sound tremendous,
Bid the graves their dead disclose;
The pale nations
Now appear as friends or foes.

3 Thousand times ten thousand standing,
Bow before His radiant throne;
Summoned now to the tribunal,
What for sinners can be done?
Awful crisis,
When each ray of hope is gone!

4 Oh, the dreadful consternation,
When they hear the sentence giv’n,
Never more to be repealèd,
Parting them from bliss and Heav’n;
And to Tophet
In confusion they are driv’n.

5 Oh may I at that dread moment,
In the Judge behold a friend;
Hear His voice in loudest accents,
Bid me to His throne ascend;
Join the chorus
That shall never, never end.