The Lord will come! the earth shall quake,
The hills their fixèd seat forsake;
And, withering, from the vault of night
The stars withdraw their feeble light.
The Lord will come! but not the same
As once in lowly form He came,
A silent lamb to slaughter led,
The bruised, the suffering, and the dead.
The Lord will come! a dreadful form,
With wreath of flame, and robe of storm,
On cherub wings, and wings of wind,
Anointed Judge of humankind!
Can this be He who wont to stray
A pilgrim on the world’s highway,
By power oppressed, and mocked by pride?
O God! is this the Crucified?
Go, tyrants! to the rocks complain!
Go, seek the mountain’s cleft in vain!
But faith, victorious o’er the tomb,
Shall sing for joy—the Lord is come!