My soul pur­sues no vul­gar theme,
The force of wit, or beau­ty’s charm:
The last as­size, the Judge su­preme,
My in­most heart and soul alarm.

See where He comes with so­lemn state,
In cloudy cha­ri­ot swift­ly borne;
Myriads of an­gels on Him wait,
His aw­ful pro­gress to adorn.

A migh­ty trump the sig­nal gives
That wakes the nations un­der­ground;
Affrights the sea, its dead re­vives,
Who hear alike the pow­er­ful sound.

Sublime in air is fixed a throne,
Wrought of a large and splen­did cloud;
From hence the Judge to all is known,
Round this the trem­bling na­tions crowd.

Among the rest I must ap­pear,
Before the glit­ter­ing judg­ment seat:
O may I have no cause to fear,
But in the Judge the Sav­ior meet!

Now would I make the Judge my friend,
Accept His grace, His laws ob­ey;
Then with the Judge shall I as­cend
To worlds of bliss and end­less day.