And mortal spirits tire and faint;
But they forget the mighty God,
That feeds the strength of every saint.
3From thee, the overflowing spring,
Our souls shall drink a fresh supply,
While such as trust their native strength,
Shall melt away, and droop, and die.
4Swift as an eagle cuts the air,
We'll mount aloft to thine abode;
On wings of love our souls shall fly,