There is a day, ’tis hastening on,
When Zion’s God shall purge His floor;
His own elect shall then be known,
For He shall count those jewels o’er.
Nought but the grains of gospel gold
Will ever stand this trying day,
When like a scroll, together rolled,
The starry heavens shall pass away.
How stands the case, my soul, with thee?
For heaven are thy credentials clear?
Is Jesus’ blood thy only plea?
Is He thy great forerunner there?
Is thy proud heart subdued by grace
To seek salvation in His name?
There’s wisdom, power and righteousness,
All centring in the worthy Lamb.
Then thou may’st rest assured of this,
And lift thy favoured head with joy,
Thy hopes of heaven’s eternal bliss,
Earth, hell and sin shall ne’er destroy.