1 Methinks the last great day is come,
I seem to hear the trumpet sound
Which shakes the earth, rends every tomb,
And wakes the prisoners under ground.

2 The mighty deep gives up her trust,
Awed by the Judge’s high command,
The small and great now quit their dust,
And round the dread tribunal stand.

3 In vain the wicked strive to shun
The Judge’s quick and piercing eye;
In vain to hills and mountains run,
And to the rocks for shelter cry.

4 This bar impartial will not know
Nor birth, nor rank, nor royal state;
Nor kings are high, nor beggars low,
The good are here, the only great.

5 Behold the awful books displayed,
Big with th’important fates of men,
Each deed and word now public made,
As wrote by Heaven’s unerring pen.

6 To every work the books assign
The joyous or the sad reward:
Sinners in vain lament and pine;
No pleas the Judge will here regard.

7 Lord, when these awful leaves unfold,
May life’s fair book my works approve:
There may I read my name enrolled,
And triumph in redeeming love.