Our Lord will come, but not the same
As once in lowly form He came,
A silent Lamb to slaughter led,
The bruised, the suffering, and the dead.
The Lord will come, a dreadful form,
With wreath of flame, and robe of storm,
On cherub wings, and wings of wind,
Appointed Judge of human kind.
Can this be He who once did stray
A pilgrim on the world's highway,
By power oppressed and mocked by pride,
The Nazarene the Crucified?
Yes, tyrants! to the rocks complain;
Go seek the mountainclefts in vain:
But faith, victorious over the tomb,
Shall sing for joy, the Lord is come.