1 I saw, beyond the tomb,
The awful Judge appear,
Prepar'd to scan with strict account,
My blessings wasted here.
2 His wrath like flaming fire,
Burn'd to the lowest hell--
And in that hopeless world of wo,
He bade my spirit dwell.
3 Ye sinners, fear the Lord,
While yet 'tis call'd today;
Soon will the awful voice of death
Command your souls away.
4 Soon will the harvest close--
The summer soon be o'er--
And soon, your injur'd, angry God
Will hear your prayers no more.
Source: Hymns, Selected and Original: for public and private worship (1st ed.) #237