Awake, my soul, stretch every nerve

Awake, my soul, stretch every nerve,
and press with vigor 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.

Blest Savior, called and led by thee,
have I my race begun;
and crowned with victory, at thy feet
I'll lay mine honors down.

Words: Philip Doddridge, 1755

Music: Siroe (Christmas)

Meter: CM

Website compiled by Steve Benner, 1999-2003.