He comes! he comes! to judge the world,
Aloud the archangel cries;
While thunders roll from pole to pole,
And lightning cleaves the skies;
The affrighted nations hear the sound,
And upward lift their eyes;
The slumbering tenants of the ground
In living armies rise.
Amid the shouts of numerous friends,
Of hosts divinely bright,
The Judge in solemn pomp descends,
Arrayed in robes of light;
His head and hair are white as snow,
His eyes a fiery flame,
A radiant crown adorns his brow,
And Jesus is his name.
Writ on his thigh his name appears,
And scars his victories tell;
Lo! in his hand the conqueror bears
The keys of death and hell:
So he ascends the judgment seat,
And at his dread command,
Myriads of creatures round his feet
In solemn silence stand.
Princes and peasants here expect
Their last, their righteous doom;
The men who dared his grace reject,
And they who dared presume.
"Depart, ye sons of vice and sin,"
The injured Jesus cries,
While the long kindling wrath within
Flashes from both his eyes.
And now in words divinely sweet,
With rapture in his face,
Aloud his sacred lips repeat
The sentence of his grace:
"Well done, my good and faithful sons,
The children of my love,
Receive the sceptres, crowns and thrones
Prepared for you above."