1 Awake, my soul, stretch ev'ry nerve,
And press with vigor on:
An heavenly race demands thy zeal,
And an immortal crown.

2 'Tis God's all animating voice,
That calls thee from on high:
'Tis hos own hand presents the prize,
To thine aspiring eye.

3 A cloud of witnesses around
Hold thee if full survey;
Forget the steps already trod,
And onward urge thy way.

4 Bless'd Savior, introduc'd by thee,
Have we our race begun;
And crown'd with victory at thy feet
We lay our laurels down.