1 Rise, my soul, and stretch thy wings,
Thy better portion trace!
Rise, from transitory things,
Towards 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!
2 Rivers to the ocean run,
Nor stay in all their course;
Fire, ascending, seeks the sun;
Both speed them to their source;
So the spirit, born of God,
Pants to view His glorious face;
Upward tends to His abode,
To rest in His embrace.