Mountains and vales, how ye quake 'neath His tread—
Wake from your slumbers, He calls, O ye dead!
Tremble, great trees, bowing down 'neath His breath;
Lay by thy scythe, at His bidding, King Death!
The sun in the heavens grows pale at His wrath,
And the stars, at a glance, disappear from their path.
God, at Thy feet, then, awe-stricken we fall—
Lord of the universe, Maker of all!
Earth's secret treasures lie bare to Thy sight,
Nor hidden from Thee the dark deeds of the night;
The lion grows timid, fawns low at Thy feet;
The waves from the shore at Thy bidding retreat.
Thou speakest—the monarch's proud ruling is o'er;
His power and his riches avail him no more,
Endless Thy greatness—of Thee are all things;
Endless Thy glory, O King of all Kings!
When mountains belched forth their red flames to the sky,
And Heaven's forked tongues thundered back in reply;
When the sun, in his horror, recoiled at the sight,
And earth hid her brow in the darkness of night;
When stars into dust fell, and vanished in space,
And but man, in his blindness, laughed up in Thy face—
Endless Thy mercy, Thy strong hand was still—
O Crucified Lord upon Calvary's hill!

Yet, Thou forgettest all, Father above,
Remembering nought but Thine infinite love
Stretching those wounded Hands out to our aid;
Telling us tenderly, 'Be not afraid!'
Ready to help us, if only we call—
Nothing too weak for Thee, nothing too small;
Ready to hear, when we kneel on the sod;
Thou our Redeemer, our Father, our God!