Prepare, ye saints, to meet your Lord,
Nor sleep nor slumber more;
Bright be your lamps, your vessels filled
To feed the wasting store.
He comes, He comes, may be the cry
In midnight’s deepest gloom;
Should then our lamps be void of oil,
How sad must be our doom?
In vain, when ’tis too late, we seek
A fresh supply to get;
In vain, when once the door is shut,
Our folly we regret.
Open, Lord, open, we may cry,
But then can’t move His heart;
I know you not, the Judge will say,
Depart from Me, depart.
Lord, for Thy coming may I wait
With loins well girt about;
In heavenly virtues may I shine,
Nor let my lamp go out.
Then will the Bridegroom me admit,
And own me for His friend;
My soul shall feast on heavenly love,
Nor shall the banquet end.