2 His sounding chariot shakes the sky,
He makes the clouds his throne,
There all his stores of lightning lie,
Till vengeance dart them down.
3 His nostrils breathe out fiery streams,
And from his awful tongue
A sovereign voice divides the flames,
And thunder roars along.
4 Think, O my soul, the dreadful day
When this incensed God
Shall rend the sky, and burn the sea,
And fling his wrath abroad.
5 What shall the wretch the sinner do?
He once defy'd the Lord;
But he shall dread the Thunderer now,
And sink beneath his word.
6 Tempests of angry fire shall roll
To blast the rebel-worm,
And beat upon his naked soul
In one eternal storm.
* Made in a great sudden storm
of thunder, August 20, 1697.
Hymn 2:63.
A funeral thought.
1 Hark! from the tombs a doleful sound,
My ears attend the cry,
"Ye living men, come view the ground
"Where you must shortly lie.
2 "Princes, this clay must be your bed,
"In spite of all your towers;
"The tall, the wise, the reverend head
"Must lie as low as ours."
3 Great God, is this our certain doom?
And are we still secure?
Still walking downward to our tomb,
And yet prepare no more?
4 Grant us the powers of quickening grace
To fit our souls to fly,
Then, when we drop this dying flesh,
We'll rise above the sky.
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