Scripture Verse

Awake, awake, stand up, O Jerusalem, which hast drunk at the hand of the Lord the cup of His fury; thou hast drunken the dregs of the cup of trembling, and wrung them out. Isaiah 51:17

Introduction

Words: Charles Wes­ley, Hymns and Sac­red Po­ems (Bris­tol, Eng­land: Fe­lix Far­ley, 1749), vol­ume 1, num­ber 4, part 4, alt.

Music: Em­ma­nu­el Carl C. N. Balle, 1850 (🔊 pdf nwc).

Alternate Tunes:

portrait
Charles Wesley (1707–1788)

Lyrics

Awake, Je­ru­sa­lem, awake,
Thou that hast drunk the trem­bling cup,
The slum­ber from thy spi­rit shake,
Beneath thy migh­ty woes stand up.

Thou that hast drunk the dead­ly wine
Of pain, as­ton­ish­ment, and fear,
The last sad dregs of wrath di­vine;
Awake, and see thy Sav­ior near.

Of all her sons whom she brought forth,
Of all her sons whom Si­on bred,
Not one can help her by his worth,
Not one can his weak mo­ther lead.

Not one at­tempts with pi­ous care
To guide her in the paths of peace:
Ah! who shall Si­on’s bur­dens bear?
Ah! who shall bid thy suf­fer­ings cease?

Famine and sword have laid thee waste;
Sin, the de­stroy­ing an­gel’s sword
Throughout thy de­so­late land has passed,
Joined with a fa­mine of the word.

By whom shall I thy sor­rows cheer?
As a wild bull thy sons lie bound,
And strugg­ling in the hunt­er’s snare,
Are bel­low­ing thro’ their spi­rit’s wound.

Fainting in all the streets they lie,
O’erwhelmed be­neath their guil­ty load,
Rebuked by Him they dared de­fy,
Full of the fu­ry of thy God.

Wherefore to thee the Lord hath said,
(Oppressed and drunk with wrath di­vine)
The Lord thy God, who deigns to plead
His peo­ple’s des­per­ate cause, and thine;

“Lo! I thy soul have free­ly loved,
I have displayed My mer­cy’s power,
The cup out of thy hands re­moved,
And thou shalt ne­ver taste it more.

“Mine in­dig­na­tion’s dread­ful cup
The por­tion of thy foes shall be,
Thy, they shall all the dregs drink up:
The cup of bless­ing is for thee.

“Thee, Si­on, thee: so long com­pelled
To stoop at the op­pressor’s frown,
Enslaved by man, and forced to yield,
When sin, or Sa­tan, cried ‘Bow down.’

“Poor vas­sal! to re­bel afraid,
Thy base­ness bowed to ev­ery lust,
As clay thou hast thy bo­dy laid,
And mixed thy spi­rit with the dust.

“But I, the right­eous Lord, on all
That tread thee down will ven­geance take,
My fu­ry on thy sin shall fall,
Mine arm an end of sin shall make.

Its be­ing with its pow­er de­stroy,
The in­ward stum­bling block re­move,
And fill thee with un­fad­ing joy,
And crown thee with eter­nal love.