611. Awake, My Soul!

Awake, my soul! stretch every nerve, And press with vigor on; A heavenly race demands thy zeal, And an immortal crown. ’Tis God’s all animating voice That calls thee from on high; ’Tis He whose hand presents the prize To thine aspiring eye. A cloud of witnesses around Hold thee in full survey; Forget the steps already trod, And onward urge thy way. Blest Savior, introduced by Thee, Our race have we begun; And, crowned with victory, at Thy feet We’ll lay our trophies down.