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 Who feeds the strength of every saint,—
Thee, 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 faint 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.
Isaac Watts, 1674-1748