1 Rise, my soul, and stretch thy wings,
Thy better portion trace;
Rise from transitory things
Towards heav'n, thy native place;
Sun and moon and stars decay,
Time 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 the soul that’s born of God
Pants to see his glorious face,
Upward 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 given;
All our sorrows left below,
And earth exchanged for heaven.