Awake, our souls, away, our fears,
Let ev­ery trem­bling thought be gone;
Awake, and run the hea­v’n­ly 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.

The migh­ty God, whose match­less pow­er
Is ev­er new, 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 heav’n­ly road.