Behold! with awful pomp,
The Judge prepares to come;
Th’archangel sounds the dreadful trump,
And wakes the gen’ral doom.

Nature, in wild amaze,
Her dissolution mourns;
Blushes of blood the moon deface;
The sun to darkness turns.

The living look with dread,
The frighted dead arise,
Start from the monumental bed,
And lift their ghastly eyes.

Recordings 1 2 3 4 5