Awake, our souls; away, our fears;
Let every trembling thought be gone;
Awake, and run the heavenly race,
And put a cheerful courage on.
True, ‘tis a strait and thorny road,
And mortal spirits tire and faint;
But they forget the mighty God
That feeds the strength of every saint-
Thee, mighty God, whose matchless power
Is ever now and ever young,
And firm endures, while endless years
Their everlasting circles run.
From Thee, the overflowing spring,
Our souls shall drink a fresh supply,
while such as trust their native strength
Shall melt away, and droop, and die.
Swift as an eagle cuts the air,
We’ll mount aloft to Thine abode;
On wings of love our souls shall fly,
Nor tire amidst the heavenly road.