Sinner, that slum­b’rest on the brink
Of hell’s de­vour­ing lake,
O think on death, on judg­ment think;
What mean’st thou, sleep­er? Wake!

Soon shall the Lord Him­self des­cend,
The clouds be­fore Him driv’n:
A sud­den shout the earth shall rend,
And shake the pow­ers of Hea­ven.

Myriads of an­gels bright shall wait,
His or­ders to ob­ey;
And ran­somed saints tri­um­phant meet,
As bright and blest as they.

The King shall send His sum­mons forth,
His mes­sen­ger shall speed,
From east and west, from south and north,
To cite the quick and dead.

But, ah! what pale, what ghast­ly looks!
When guil­ty wretch­es come,
To hear from God’s un­err­ing books,
Their just tho’ dread­ful doom!

Convinced of ev­ery wan­ton word,
Of ev­ery dar­ing sin,
Of speech­es hard against the Lord,
And thoughts and acts un­clean.

Save us, O Je­sus, by Thy death,
And cleanse us in Thy blood;
Give us to live and die in faith,
And wait the trump of God.