DIES IRÆ-AN OLD POEM

Seventh-day Adventist Publishing Association · Battle Creek, Mich. · Jun 22, 1869

DIES IRÆ—AN OLD POEM.

[The following is an excellent translation of a Latin Poem which has received the enthusiastic encomiums of Goethe, Dr. Johnson, Sir Walter Scott, and other distinguished men. It is said that Dr. Johnson always wept on reading the tenth stanza. The Earl of Roscommon expired with the seventeenth verse on his lips. The original was written by a monk in the thirteenth century.]

DAY of wrath, that day of burning, All shall melt, to ashes turning, As foretold by seers discerning.

Oh! what fear shall it engender, When the Judge shall come in splendor, Strict to mark and just to render.

Trumpet scattering sounds of wonder, Rending sepulchres asunder Shall resistless summons thunder.

All agast when Death shall shiver, And great nature's frame shall quiver, When the graves their dead deliver.

Book where every act's recorded, All events all time afforded, Shall be brought and dooms awarded.

When shall sit the Judge unerring, He'll unfold all here occurring, No just vengeance then deferring.

What shall I say that time pending? Ask what Advocate's befriending, When the just man needs defending?

King Almighty and all-knowing, Grace to sinners freely showing, Save me, fount of good overflowing.

Think, O Jesus, for what reason Thou endur'dst earth's spite and treason, Nor me lose in that dread season.

Seeking me thy worn feet hasted, On the cross thy soul death tasted, Let such labor not be wasted.

Righteous Judge of retribution, Grant me perfect absolution, Ere that day of execution.

Culprit-like, I—heart all broken, On my cheek shame's crimson token— Plead the pardoning word be spoken.

Thou who Mary gav'st remission, Heard'st the dying thief's petition, Cheer'dst with hope my lost condition.

Though my prayers do nothing merit, What is needful, Thou confer it— Lest I quenchless fire inherit.

'Mid the sheep a place decide me, And from goats on left divide me, Standing on the right beside thee.

When th' accused away are driven, To the final burning given, Call me with the bless'd to Heaven.

I beseech thee prostrate lying, Hearts as ashes contrite sighing, Care for me when I am dying.

On that awful day of wailing, Human destinies unveiling, When man rising stands before thee, Spare the culprit, God of glory.