Awake, my soul, stretch every nerve,

And press with vigor on;

A heavenly race demands your zeal,

And an immortal crown.

2 ’Tis God’s all-animating voice

That calls thee from on high:

’Tis his own hand presents the prize

To thy aspiring eye.

3 A cloud of witnesses around

Holds thee in full survey:

Forget the steps already trod,

And onward urge the way.

4 Blest Saviour, introduced by thee,

Have we our race begun!

And crowned with victory at thy feet

We’ll lay our honors down.