How Dreadful, Lord, Will Be the Day

How dread­ful

Lord

will be the day

When all the tribes of dead shall rise;

And those who dare to dis­ob­ey

Be dragged be­fore Thine an­gry eyes!

The wick­ed child

who oft­en heard

His pi­ous par­ents speak of Thee

And fled from ev­ery se­ri­ous word

Shall not be able then to flee.

No; he shall see them burst the tomb

And rise

and leave him tremb­ling there

To hear his ev­er­last­ing doom

With shame

and ter­ror

and des­pair.

Whilst they ap­pear at Thy right hand

With saints and an­gels round the throne

He

a poor guil­ty wretch

shall stand

And bear Thy dread­ful wrath

alone!

No par­ent then shall bid him pray

To Him who now the sin­ner hears;

For Christ Him­self shall turn away

And show no pi­ty to his tears.

Great God! I trem­ble at the thought

And at Thy feet for mer­cy bend

That when to judg­ment I am brought

The Judge Him­self may be my friend.