1 Awake, my soul, stretch every nerve,
And press with vigor on;
A heav’nly race demands thy zeal,
And an immortal crown.

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

3 ’Tis God’s all-animating voice
That calls thee from on high;
’Tis His own hand presents the prize
To thine aspiring eye.

4 That prize with peerless glories bright,
Which shall new lustre boast,
When victors' wreaths and monarch's gems
Shall blend in common dust.