With vigor arise,
And press to our permanent place in the skies.
Of heavenly birth, though wandering on earth,
This is not our place,
But strangers and pilgrims ourselves we confess.
At Jesus’s call, we gave up our all;
And still we forego,
For Jesus’s sake, our enjoyments below.
No longing we find for the country behind;
But onward we move,
And still we are seeking a country above:
A country of joy without any alloy;
We thither repair;
Our hearts and our treasure already are there.
We march hand in hand to Immanuel’s land;
No matter what cheer
We meet with on earth, for eternity’s near.
The rougher our way, the shorter our stay;
The tempests that rise
Shall gloriously hurry our souls to the skies.
The fiercer the blast, the sooner ‘tis past;
The troubles that come
Shall come to our rescue, and hasten us home.
Charles Wesley
When I survey the wondrous cross
On which the Prince of Glory died,
My richest gain I count but loss,
And pour contempt on all my pride.
Forbid it, Lord, that I should boast,
Save in the death of Christ my God:
All the vain things that charm me most,
I sacrifice them to His blood.
See! from His head, His hands, His feet,
Sorrow and love flow mingled down!
Did e’er such love and sorrow meet,
Or thorns compose so rich a crown?
Were the whole realm of nature mine,
That were an offering far too small:
Love so amazing, so divine,
Demands my soul, my life, my all.
Isaac Watts
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