1 Awake, my soul, stretch every nerve,
And press with vigor on:
An heavenly race demands thy zeal,
And an immortal crown.

2 'Tis God's all-animating voice,
Which calls thee from on high:
'Tis his own hand presents the prize
To thine aspiring eye.

3 A cloud of witnesses around,
Hold thee in full survey;
Forget the steps already trod,
And onward urge thy way.

4 Bless'd Saviour, introduc'd by thee,
Have we our race begun;
And, crown'd with victory, at thy feet
We lay our laurels down.