Behold God’s Great Incarnate Son

Behold God’s great in­car­nate Son

In ma­jes­ty comes fly­ing don:

Hark! for His trum­pet’s aw­ful sound

Awakes the dead

and cleav­es the ground.

So so­lemn shall the judg­ment be

And so sev­ere the scru­ti­ny

That

by his mer­it tried alone

The saint him­self would be un­done.

Where then

ye sons of Be­li­al

here

Will your as­ton­ished souls ap­pear?

How will ye shun His pierc­ing sight?

Or who re­sist His match­less might?

Up to the point­ed mount­ains fly

And gain the con­fines of the sky;

There shall ye meet ce­les­ti­al fire

While mount­ains melt be­fore His ire.

Call on the rend­ing earth to save

And in its cen­ter search a grave;

The Judge shall well dis­cern thee there

And drag thee trem­bling to His bar.

Deck thee around with fraud and lies

And put on ev­ery fair dis­guise;

Soon shall thy paint­ed form be known

Amidst ten thou­sand of His on.

Gird thee in arms

His wrath t’op­pose

And league with mill­ions of His foes;

Soon would the re­bel band ex­pire

Like crack­ling thorns amidst the fire.

One on­ly way may yet be found;

Submissive bow ye to the ground:

His cross a re­fuge will af­ford

From all the ter­rors of His sword.