Awake, my soul, stretch every nerve,

And press with vigor on;

A heavenly race demands thy zeal,

And an immortal crown.

A cloud of witnesses around

Hold thee in full survey:

Forget the steps already trod,

And onward urge thy way.

’Tis God’s all-animating voice

That calls thee from on high;

’Tis His own hand presents the prize

To thine aspiring eye:

That prize with peerless glories bright

Which shall new luster boast,

When victors’ wreaths and monarchs’ gems

Shall blend in common dust.

Blest Saviour, introduced by Thee,

Have I my race begun;

And, crowned with victory, at Thy feet

I’ll lay my honors down.