Classic Poem

When the last trumpet rends the skies,
And shakes the solid earth beneath;
When all the sleeping saints arise
Triumphant o'er the power of death:

When he that made the world comes down,
And calls the nations to his feet;
Exalts the righteous to his throne,
And drives the wicked from his seat:

How vast an honour will it be
To hear the Judge pronounce us blest;
Then, with immortal ecstasy,
To enter our eternal rest!

Thrice happy — and thrice awful day!
What solemn thoughts should sinners feel!
And how should saints improve the way
As on they move to heav'n or hell!

How should we live who hope to reign
For ever with the Lord above;
While that high calling we sustain,
The children of the God of love!

Eternal Spirit, let thy rays
Shine on our hearts, and guide us right,
Through all the paths of truth and grace,
To the bright realms of perfect light.