Rise, my soul, and stretch thy wings,
Thy
better portion trace;
Rise
from transitory things
Toward
heaven, they native place:
Sun,
and moon, and stars decay;
Thine
shall soon this earth remove;
Rise,
my soul, and haste away
To
seats prepared above.
2
Rivers
to the ocean run,
Nor
stay in all their course;
Fire
ascending seeks the sun;
Both
speed them to their source;
So
a soul that’s born of God,
Longs
to view His glorious face,
Forward
tends to His abode
To
rest in His embrace.
3
Cease,
ye pilgrims, cease to mourn;
Press
onward to the prize;
Soon
our 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 exchange for heaven.