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Awake, our souls, away, our fears;
let every trembling thought be gone;
awake, and run the heavenly race,
and put a cheerful courage on.
True, 'tis a strait and thorny road
and mortal spirits tire and faint;
but they forget the mighty God
who feeds the strength of every saint-
Thee, mighty God, whose matchless power
is ever new and ever young,
and firm endures, while endless years
their everlasting circles run!
From thee, the overflowing spring,
our souls shall drink a fresh supply,
while such as trust their native strength
shall faint away, and droop, and die.
Swift as an eagle cuts the air,
we'll mount aloft to thine abode:
on wings of love our souls shall fly,
nor tire along the heavenly road.