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.