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and vales, how ye quake 'neath His tread— Wake from your slumbers, He calls, O ye dead! Tremble, great trees, bowing down 'neath His breath; Lay by thy scythe, at His bidding. King Death! The sun in the heavens grows pale at His wrath. And the stars, at a glance, disappear from their path. God, at Thy feet, then, awe-stricken we fall— Lord of the universe, Maker of all!

Earth's secret treasures lie bare to Thy sight, Nor hidden from Thee the dark deeds of the night; The lion grows timid, fawns low at Thy feet; The waves from the shore at Thy bidding retreat. Thou speakest—the monarch's proud ruling is o'er; His power and his riches avail him no more, Endless Thy greatness—of Thee are all things; Endless Thy glory, O King of all Kings!