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L. M.


Press Onward to the Mark.

Awake, our souls, away, our fears;

Let every trembling thought be gone.

Awake and run the heavenly race,

And put a cheerful courage on.

True ’tis a strait and thorny road,

And mortal spirits tire and faint;

But they forget the mighty God,

That feeds the strength of every saint.

From Thee, the overflowing spring,

Our souls shall drink a fresh supply,

While such as trust in human strength

Shall melt away, and droop, and die.

Swift as an eagle cuts the air,

We’ll mount aloft to Thine abode;

On wings of love our souls shall fly,

Nor tire amidst the heavenly road.

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