Your harps, ye trembling saints,
Down from the willows take,
Loud to the praise of Christ 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.

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