The Trumpet

	The chariot!
	The chariot!
	Its wheels roll in fire
	As the Lord cometh down
	In the pomp of his ire!
	Lo! Self moving it drives
	On its pathway of clouds
	And the heavens with the burden
	Of Godhead are bowed
	O Mercy! O
	Mercy! Look down from above
	Great Creator on us
	Thy sad children with love
	When beneath, to their darkness
	The wicked are driven
	May our justified souls
	Find a welcome in heaven