The last loud trumpet’s wondrous sound
Shall through the rending tombs rebound,
And wake the nations under ground;
Nature and death shall with surprise
Behold the pale offenders rise,
And view the Judge with conscious eyes.
Then shall, with universal dread,
The sacred mystic book be read,
To try the living and the dead.
The Judge ascends His awful throne,
He makes each secret sin be known,
And all with shame confess their own.
Oh, then, what interest shall I make,
With whom shall I my refuge take,
When the most just have cause to quake;
Thou mighty, formidable King,
Thou mercy’s unexhausted spring,
Some comfortable pity bring.
Thou who for me didst feel such pain,
Whose precious blood the cross did stain,
Let not those agonies be in vain;
Forget not what my ransom cost,
Nor let my dear-bought soul be lost,
In storms of guilty terror tossed.
Give my exalted soul a place
Among Thy chosen right-hand race,
The sons of God, and heirs of grace;
Trembling before Thy throne I bend
My God, my Father, and my friend,
Do not forsake me in the end.