1 Rise, my soul, and stretch thy wings,
Thy better portion trace;
Rise from transitory things
Tow'rds heav'n thy native place.
Sun and moon and stars decay,
Time shall soon this earth remove;
Rise, my soul, and haste away
To joys 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 my soul, derived from God.
Pants 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 Saviour will return
Triumphant in the skies.
Yet a season, and you know
Happy entrance will be giv'n,
All our sorrows left below,
And earth exchanged for heav'n.