The Last Loud Trumpet’s Wondrous Sound

The last loud trum­pet’s won­drous sound

Shall through the rend­ing tombs r­ebound

And wake the na­tions un­der ground;

Nature and death shall with sur­prise

Behold the pale of­fend­ers rise

And view the Judge with con­scious eyes.

Then shall

with un­ivers­al dread

The sac­red mys­tic book be read

To try the liv­ing and the dead.

The Judge as­cends His aw­ful throne

He makes each sec­ret sin be known

And all with shame con­fess their own.

Oh

then

what in­terest shall I make

With whom shall I my re­fuge take

When the most just have cause to quake;

Thou migh­ty

for­mid­able King

Thou mer­cy’s un­ex­haust­ed spring

Some com­fort­able pi­ty bring.

Thou who for me didst feel such pain

Whose pre­cious blood the cross did stain

Let not those ago­nies be in vain;

Forget not what my ran­som cost

Nor let my dear-bought soul be lost

In storms of guil­ty ter­ror tossed.

Give my ex­alt­ed soul a place

Among Thy chos­en right-hand race

The sons of God

and heirs of grace;

Trembling be­fore Thy throne I bend

My God

my Fa­ther

and my friend

Do not for­sake me in the end.