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.

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, 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.