Awake, my soul -- stretch every nerve,
And press with vigor on;
A heavenly race demands thy zeal,
A bright, immortal crown.

2 'Tis God's all-animating voice
That calls thee from on high:
'Tis his own hand presents the prize
To thine aspiring eye.

3 A cloud of witnesses around,
Hold thee in full survey:
Forget the steps already trod,
And onward urge thy way.

4 Blest Savior, introduced by thee
Have we our race begun;
And, crowned with vict'ry, at thy feet
We'll lay our laurels down.

P. Doddridge, 1740.