The Christian race.
Awake, our souls; away, our fears,
Let every trembling thought begone;
Awake, and run the heav'nly race,
And put a cheerful courage on.
True, 'tis a strait and thorny road,
And mortal spirits tire and faint;
But they forget the mighty God,
That feeds the strength of every saint.
Thee, mighty God! whose matchless power
Is ever new and ever young,
And firm endures, while endless years
Their everlasting circles run.
From thee, the overflowing 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 amidst the heav'nly road.
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