Rise, my soul, and stretch thy wings,
Thy bet­ter por­tion trace;
Rise from tran­si­to­ry things,
Toward Hea­ven, thy na­tive 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, that’s born of God,
Pants to view His glo­ri­ous face,
Upward tends to His abode,
To rest in His em­brace.

Fly me rich­es, fly me cares,
Whilst I that coast ex­plore;
Flattering world, with all thy snares,
Solicit me no more.
Pilgrims fix not here their home;
Strangers tar­ry but a night;
When the last dear morn is come,
They’ll rise to joy­ful light.

Cease, ye pil­grims, cease to mourn,
Press on­ward to the prize;
Soon thy Sav­ior will re­turn,
Triumphant in the skies:
Yet a sea­son, and you know
Happy en­trance will be giv­en
All our sor­rows left be­low,
And earth ex­changed for Hea­ven.