How Shall It Be With Them That Day When God Demands Of Earth His Pay? With Them Who Make A God Of Clay And Gold And Put All Truth Away. Shall Not They See The Lightning-Ray Of Wrath? And Hear The Trumpet-Bray Of Black Destruction? While Dismay O'Erwhelms Them And God'S Hosts Delay? Shall Not They, Clothed In Rich Array, Pray God For Mercy? And, A-Sway, Heap On Their Hearts The Ashes Gray Of Old Repentance? Nay! Oh, Nay! They Shall Not Know Till He Shall Lay An Earthquake Hand Upon Their Way; And Doomsday, Clad In Death'S Decay, Sweep Down, And They've No Time To Pray.