Methinks the last great day is come,
I seem to hear the trum­pet sound
Which shakes the earth, rends ev­ery tomb,
And wakes the pri­son­ers under ground.

The migh­ty deep gives up her trust,
Awed by the Judge’s high com­mand,
The small and great now quit their dust,
And round the dread tri­bun­al stand.

In vain the wick­ed strive to shun
The Judge’s quick and pierc­ing eye;
In vain to hills and mount­ains run,
And to the rocks for shel­ter cry.

This bar im­par­tial will not know
Nor birth, nor rank, nor roy­al state;
Nor kings are high, nor beg­gars low,
The good are here, the on­ly great.

Behold the aw­ful books dis­played,
Big with th’im­port­ant fates of men,
Each deed and word now pub­lic made,
As wrote by Hea­ven’s un­er­ring pen.

To ev­ery work the books as­sign
The joy­ous or the sad re­ward:
Sinners in vain la­ment and pine;
No pleas the Judge will here re­gard.

Lord, when these aw­ful leaves un­fold,
May life’s fair book my works ap­prove:
There may I read my name en­rolled,
And tri­umph in re­deem­ing love.