1 The heart, dejected, sighs to know,
Why vice triumphant reigns below;
Why saints have fall'n in ev'ry age,
The victims of tyrannic rage.

2 Fast roll successive years away;
Fast hastens on th' important day,
When, to th' astonish'd world's surprise,
God's high tribunal shall arise.

3 Hark, 'tis the trumpet's piercing sound;
The rising dead assemble round;
In close procession, see, they come,
Each to receive his final doom.

4 Lo! there, a vile, degenerate race;
Pale terror sits on ev'ry face:
Here, on the right, a joyful band,
The sons of suff'ring virtue stand.

5 The sentence pass'd, lo! these arise
To bliss and glory in the skies:
While those, who once stood high in fame,
Sink to contempt, remorse, and shame.

6 Thus shall God's government appear
Without a shade, divinely fair;
And blushing doubts, with joy, confess,
The Lord's a God of righteousness.