8,6,8,6

age moi psucha

I

Up, up, my soul, on wings of praise,

No other service know;

In holy strains the love express

That fires the heart below.

II

Burn, burn, my soul, and ever be

With holy ardour fired,

And, strongly armed with firm resolve,

Be evermore inspired.

III

Pour forth a bloodless offering

Of hymns and holy lauds,

And weave a garland rich and fair

To crown the King of gods.