Come, O Thou migh­ty Sav­ior,
We look for Thine ap­pear­ing;
Descend, we pray, Thy love dis­play,
Our wait­ing spir­its cheer­ing.

Come, clothed with glo­ri­ous pow­er;
Let all thy saints ad­ore Thee,
And let Thy Word, the Spir­it’s sword,
Subdue Thy foes be­fore Thee.

May ev­ery heart with glad­ness
Thine of­fered grace re­ceiv­ing,
Now cease from sin, and, pure with­in,
Have peace, in Thee be­liev­ing.

Then when Thou com’st to judg­ment,
On fly­ing clouds des­cend­ing,
May we re­joice when, at Thy voice,
The so­lid earth is rend­ing.