Full Lyrics
Your harps, ye trembling saints,
Down from the willows take:
Loud to the praise of love divine,
Bid ev'ry string awake.
Though in a foreign land,
We are not far from home:
And nearer to our house above
We ev'ry moment come.
His grace will to the end
Stronger and brighter shine;
Nor present things, nor things to come,
Shall quench the spark divine.
Fasten'd within the vail,
Hope be your anchor strong;
His loving spirit, the sweet gale
That wafts you smooth along.
Or, should the surges rise,
And peace delay to come;
Blest is the sorrow, kind the storm,
That drives us nearer home.
The people of his choice
He will not cast away;
Yet do not always here expect
On Tabor's mount to stay.
