The day of the Lord, it cometh !
It comes like a thief in the night.
It comes when the world is dreaming
Of safety, and peace, and light.
It cometh, the day of sackcloth,
With darkness, and storm, and fire,
The day of the great avenging,
The day of the burning ire.
Not slowly, slowly, like twilight,
Nor like the cold creeping tide ;
Nor barque from the distant offing,
Moving on o’er the waters wide.
But instant—like sudden lightning,
In the depths of a tranquil sky ;
From the west to the east in a moment,
The havoc descends from on high !
The voice of the awful trumpet
Arresteth the march of time ;
With terror, and woe, and judgment,
It soundeth through every clime.
It speaketh aloud to the living,
It speaks to the slumbering dead ;
Earth heareth the final summons,
And boweth the trembling head.
The flash of the sword of havoc
Foretelleth the day of blood,
Revealing the judge’s progress,
The downward march of God.
The fire which no mortal kindles,
Quick seizes the quaking earth ;
And labors the groaning creation
In the pangs of its second birth.
Then the day of the evil endeth,
And the righteous reign comes in,
Like a cloud of sorrow, evanish
The ages of human sin,
The light of the morning gleameth,
A dawn without cloud or gloom ;
In chains lies the ruler of darkness,
And the Prince of light has come !