Your harps, ye trem­bling saints,
Down from the wil­lows take;
Loud to the praise of love di­vine
Bid ev­ery string awake.

Though in a for­eign land
We are not far from home,
And near­er to our house ab­ove
We ev­ery mo­ment come.

His grace will to the end
Stronger and bright­er shine;
Nor pre­sent things nor things to come
Shall quench the spark di­vine.

When we in dark­ness walk,
Nor feel the heav­en­ly flame,
Then is the time to trust our God,
And rest up­on His name.

Soon shall our doubts and fears
Subside at His con­trol;
His lov­ing­kind­ness shall break through
The mid­night of the soul.

Blest is the man, O Lord!
That stays him­self on Thee;
Who wait for Thy sal­va­tion, Lord!
Shall thy sal­va­tion see.