1 Your harps, ye trembling saints,
Down from the willows take;
Loud to the praise of love divine
Bid ev'ry string awake.
2 Though in a foreign land,
We are not far from home;
And nearer to our house above
We ev'ry moment come.
3 His grace will to the end
Stronger and brighter shine;
Nor present things, nor things to come,
Shall quench the grace divine.
4 When we in darkness walk,
Nor feel the heav'nly flame,
Then is the time to trust our God,
And rest upon his Name.
5 Soon shall our doubts and fears
Subside at his control;
His loving-kindness shall break through
The midnight of the soul.
6 Blest is the man, O God,
That stays himself on thee:
Who wait for thy salvation, Lord,
Shall thy salvation see.
|First Line:||Your harps, ye trembling saints|
|Author:||Augustus M. Toplady (1772)|
|Topic:||Christian Life: Perseverance; Heaven: Anticipated; Israel: In Exile(3 more...)|
|Composer:||William H. Monk (1861)|
|Key:||G Major or modal|