1 Your harps, ye trembling saints,
Down from the willows take;
Loud to the praise of Christ our Lord,
Bid every string awake.

2 Tho' 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 the spark divine.

4 The time of love will come,
When we shall clearly see
Not only that he shed his blood,
But each shall say, for me.

5 Tarry his leisure then,
Wait the appointed hour;
Wait till the bridegroom of your souls
Reveal his love with power.

6 Blest is the man, O God,
That stays himself on thee!
Who waits for thy salvation, Lord,
Shall thy salvation see.