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1 Behold the awful trumpet sounds,
The sleeping dead to raise,
And calls the nations under ground:
O how the saints will praise!
2 Behold the Saviour how he comes
Descending from his throne
To burst asunder all our tombs
And lead his children home.
3 But who can bear that dreadful day,
To see the world in flames:
The burning mountains melt away,
While rocks run down in streams.
4 The falling stars their orbits leave,
The sun in darkness hide;
The elements asunder cleave,
The moon turn'd into blood!
5 Behold the universal world
In consternation stand,
The wicked into Hell are turn'd
The Saints at God's right hand.
6 O then the music will begin,
Their Saviour God to praise:
They are all freed from every sin,
And thus they'll spend their days!
| Text Information | |
|---|---|
| First Line: | Behold the awful trumpet sounds |
| Language: | English |
| Publication Date: | 1801 |
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