Not in poverty and shame,
As when first to earth He came,
When by human power and pride
Scorned, insulted, crucified;
Not with cymbals, fife, nor drum,
Will the conqu'ring Hero come;
Not with banners floating high,
Rent with shot, of gory dye;
Not with thund'ring cannon peal,
Not by the armies clad in steel,
Will His regal feet be set
On the heights of Olivet;
But in clouds will Zion's King
Come, as on the lightning's wing.
Saints redeemed, the quick, the dead,
Shall attend their glorious Head;
Robed in light, the angel choir—
Spirits—ministers of fire—
Fire, hail, and wind, and storm,
Shall surround His dazzling form.
Ev'ry eye that form shall see;
They, who nailed him to the tree;
They, who dared—the self-accursed—
Mock with gall his dying thirst.
Every knee to him shall bow;
Low shall bend each haughty brow,
Ev'ry guilty heart shall quake—
Heav'n, and earth, and seas, shall shake.
Have the hill tops caught his light?
Watchman! tell us of the night.