The final Sentence, and Misery of the Wicked. Matt. xxv. 41

And will the Judge descend? And must the Dead arise? And not a single Soul escape His all-discerning Eyes?

And from his righteous Lips Shall such a Sentence sound? And thro' the Millions of the Damn'd Spread black Despair around?

"Depart from me, Accurs'd, "To everlasting Flame, "For rebel Angels first prepar'd, "Where Mercy never came".

How will my Heart endure The Terrors of that Day, When Earth and Heav'n before his Face Astonish'd shrink away?

But e'er that Trumpet shakes The Mansions of the Dead, Hark from the Gospel's gentle Voice What joyful Tidings spread!

Ye Sinners, seek his Grace, Whose Wrath ye cannot bear; Fly to the Shelter of his Cross, And find Salvation there.

So shall that Curse remove, By which the Saviour bled, And the last awful Day shall pour His Blessings on your Head.