Rise, my soul, and stretch thy wings,
Thy better portion trace;
Rise from transitory things,
Toward Heaven, thy native place:
Sun and moon and stars decay,
Time shall soon this earth remove;
Rise, my soul, and haste away
To seats prepared above.

Rivers to the ocean run,
Nor stay in all their course;
Fire ascending seeks the sun;
Both speed them to their source:
So my soul, that’s born of God,
Pants to view His glorious face,
Upward tends to His abode,
To rest in His embrace.

Fly me riches, fly me cares,
Whilst I that coast explore;
Flattering world, with all thy snares,
Solicit me no more.
Pilgrims fix not here their home;
Strangers tarry but a night;
When the last dear morn is come,
They’ll rise to joyful light.

Cease, ye pilgrims, cease to mourn,
Press onward to the prize;
Soon thy Savior will return,
Triumphant in the skies:
Yet a season, and you know
Happy entrance will be given
All our sorrows left below,
And earth exchanged for Heaven.