Awake, our souls! Away, our fears!
Let ev'ry trembling thought be gone!
Awake, and run the heav'nly race
And put a cheerful courage on.

True, 'tis a straight and thorny road,
And mortal spirits tire and faint
But they forget the mighty God
That feeds the strength of ev'ry saint.

The mighty God, whose matchless pow’r
Is ever new and ever young
And firm, endures, while endless years
Their everlasting circles run.

From Thee, the ever-flowing 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 along the heav'nly road.