Rise, my soul, and stretch thy wings, thy better portion trace; Rise from transitory things, towards heaven, thy destined place: Sun and moon and stars decay, time shall soon this earth remove; Rise, my soul, and haste away to seats prepared above. Rivers to the ocean run, nor stay in all their course; Fire ascending seeks the sun; both speed them to their source: So my soul, derived from God, longs to view His glorious face, Forward tends to His abode, to rest in His embrace. Cease, ye pilgrims, cease to mourn, press onward to the prize; Soon thy Savior will return, to take thee to the skies: There is everlasting peace, rest, enduring rest, in heaven; There will sorrow ever cease, and crowns of joy be given.
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