The heart dejected sighs to know,
Why vice triumphant reigns below;
Why saints have fall’n in every age,
The victims of tyrannic rage.
Fast roll successive years away;
Fast hastens on th’important day,
When, to th’astonished world’s surprise,
God’s high tribunal shall arise.
Hark! ’tis the trumpet’s piercing sound;
The rising dead assemble round;
In close procession, see, they come,
Each to receive his final doom.
Lo! there, a vile, degenerate race;
Pale terror sits on every face:
Here, on the right, a joyful band,
The sons of suffering virtue stand.
The sentence passed, lo! these arise
To bliss and glory in the skies:
While those, who once stood high in fame,
Sink to contempt and lasting shame.
Thus shall God’s government appear
Without a shade, divinely fair;
And blushing doubt with joy confess,
The Lord’s a God of righteousness.