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 mountain-clefts in vain:
But faith, victorious o'er the tomb,
Shall sing for joy, "The Lord is come."