856
L. M.
I press toward the mark.
Phil. 3:14.
Awake, our souls; away, our fears;
Let every trembling thought be gone;
Awake, and run the heavenly race,
And put a cheerful courage on.
2 True, ’tis a straight and thorny road,
And mortal spirits tire and faint;
But they forget the mighty God,
Who feeds the strength of every saint;
3 The mighty God, whose matchless power
Is ever new and ever young,
And firm endures, while endless years
Their everlasting circles run.
4 From thee, the overflowing spring,
Our souls shall drink a full supply;
While those who trust their native strength,
Shall melt away, and droop, and die.
5 Swift as an eagle cuts the air,
We’ll mount aloft to thine abode;
On wings of love our souls shall fly,
Nor tire amid the heavenly road.
Watts.