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Awake, my soul, stretch ev'ry nerve,
And press with vigor on;
A heav'nly race demands thy zeal,
And an immortal crown,
And an immortal crown.
A cloud of witnesses around
Hold thee in full survey;
Forget the steps already trod,
And onward urge thy way,
And onward urge thy way.
'Tis God's all animating voice
That calls thee from on high;
'Tis his own hand presents the prize
To thine aspiring eye,
To thine aspiring eye.
That prize with peerless glory bright,
With thee, O Lord, we'll gain,
When earth's great monarchs shall have lost
Their glory and their fame,
Their glory and their fame.
Blest Saviour, introduced by thee,
Our race have we begun;
And crowned with vict'ry, at thy feet
We'll lay our trophies down,
We'll lay our trophies down.