Your harps, ye trembling saints,
Down from the willows take,
Loud to the praise of God our Lord,
Bid ev’ry string awake.

Tho’ in a foreign land,
We are not far from home,
And nearer to our home above,
We ev’ry moment come.

His grace shall to the end
Stronger and brighter shine,
Nor present things, nor things to come,
Shall quench the spark divine.

Recordings 1