Dora Sigerson Shorter

“ Mountains 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 ”