CCXCVI. Pressing on in the Christian Race.

AWAKE, my Soul, stretch ev'ry Nerve,
And press with Vigour on:
A heav'nly Race demands thy Zeal,
And an immortal Crown.

A Cloud of Witnesses around
Hold thee in full Survey:
Forget the Steps already trod,
And onward urge thy Way.

'Tis GOD'S all-animating Voice,
That calls thee from on high;
'Tis his own Hand presents the Prize
To thine aspiring Eye.

That Prize with peerless Glories bright,
Which shall new Lustre boast,
When Victors Wreaths and Monarchs Gem.
Shall blend in common Dust.

Blest Saviour, introduc'd by thee
Have I my Race begun;
And crown'd with Vict'ry at thy Feet
I'll lay mine Honours down.