Rise, my soul, and stretch thy wings, thy better portion trace;
Rise from transitory things toward heaven, 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.
Rivers to the ocean run, nor stay in all their course;
Fire ascending seeks the sun; both speed them to their source;
So a soul that’s born of God, longs to view His glorious face,
Forward tends to His abode to rest in His embrace.
Cease, ye pilgrims, cease to mourn; press onward to the prize;
Soon our Savior will return, triumphant in the skies;
Yet a season, and you know happy entrance will be given,
All our sorrows left below, and earth exhcanged for heaven.