Rise, my soul, and stretch thy wings,
Thy better portion trace,
Rise from transitory things,
To heav’n, 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.

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

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