Your harps, ye trembling saints!

Down from the willows take;

Loud to the praise of love divine,

Bid every string awake.

2 Though in a foreign land,

We are not far from home,

And, nearer to our house above,

We every moment come.

3 His grace will, to the end,

Stronger and brighter shine;

Nor present things, nor things to come,

Shall quench this spark divine.

4 When we in darkness walk,

Nor feel the heavenly flame

Then will we trust our gracious God,

And rest upon his name.

5 Blest is the man, O God!

That stays himself on thee:

Who waits for thy salvation, Lord!

Shall thy salvation see.