Awake, my soul, stretch every nerve,

And press with vigour on;

A heavenly race demands thy zeal,

And an immortal crown.

A cloud of witnesses around

Hold thee in full survey;

Forget the steps already trod,

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.

Then wake, my soul, stretch every nerve,

And press with vigour on;

A heavenly race demands thy zeal,

And an immortal crown.