AMSRERDAM 7.6.7.6.7.7.7.6. |
PILGRIMAGE |
Rise, my soul, and stretch thy wings,
Thy better portion trace; Rise from transitory things Toward heaven, 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.
Rivers to the ocean run,
Nor stay in all their course; Fire ascending seeks the sun; Both speed them to their source; So a soul that's born of God, Longs to view His glorious face, Forward tends to His abode To rest in His embrace.
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 given, All our sorrows left below, And earth exchanged for heaven.
Rise, my soul, and stretch thy wings,
Thy better portion trace; |
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Robert Seagrave, 1742 (1693-1759) | James Nares (1715-1783) From The Foundery Collection, 1742 |