Not by the brazen trumpet's voice,

But the sweet sky-lark's early lay,

Our tribes are summoned, to rejoice

In God their Saviour on this day.

Not to the battle-field we throng

With deadly steel in murderous hands,

But on our hill of peace the song

Of triumph bursts from all our bands.

Then, in the temples of the Lord,

Assembling round a throne of grace

We sing, and pray, and hear the word,

And meet our Maker face to face.

Salvation's silver trumpet brings

Heaven's richest music to our ears;

Happy, whose heart with rapture springs,

At the first welcome note he hears.

He, when the last dread trumpet's tone

The dead to second life shall call,

May stand unmoved before the throne,

Though stars, like lightnings, round him fall.

He, where eternal sabbaths shine,

Where all by God himself are taught,

Lessons shall learn of truth divine,

Of power and love, surpassing thought.